Seven Deadly Sins
by Hawki
Summary: Greed. Sloth. Envy. Gluttony. Lust. Pride. Wrath. Do you know what your sin is?
1. Prologue

_Christ did not to his first disciples say, "go forth, and to the world preach idle tales," but unto them a true foundation gave._

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Prologue**

 **Beatrice Lodovico**

 **2463-2505**

 **Loving Mother and Wife**

 **Not Forgotten**

The grave marking was simple, as was its design. A white slab of marble in the small backyard space that the Lodovicos shared with two other families on Londinium. No-one had objected to the grave marker here, even after Beatrice Lodovico's body was cremated after the funeral at St Portinari Church. And, as a slight drizzle came down over New Cardiff, no one objected to him being out here either. As he sat on the grass and watched the hologram of his mother. She'd been younger then, back when his memories of her were as a child. But now, he could appreciate her beauty. And above all, her smile. The kind that could reassure a young boy that all was right in the world.

But like her beauty, the smile had vanished from her body, when a car had ploughed into her at over 120 kilometres per hour on a Friday night that would remain in his memory for the rest of his life. Her death had been instant, the police had said. The driver had lost his licence and was facing at least five years, they said. They, and many other people, had said a lot of things. That she was with God now. That all things happened for a reason. But all he knew was that his mother was dead. And that he was not yet in Heaven with her.

"Dante?"

He remained seated on the grass as he heard his father's voice, as well as his footsteps.

"Are you alright?"

Dante looked up at him as he sat down beside his son, before returning his gaze to the gravestone. In one hand was a wooden cross. In the other a glass of wine. He'd been drinking a lot of that recently. Last week he'd even missed church – when he'd gone to his room, he'd found him snoring away, with three empty bottles on his bed.

"She's in a better place now."

Dante remained silent. He knew that. Why did everyone have to keep repeating those words? Did they have so little confidence in the strength of his faith? Or was it their own that was weak, and they required words to strengthen their spirit?

"But it isn't God's will that we join her yet," Father continued. He put a hand on his son's shoulder. "She would not want you to waste your life."

"I know," he said. He kept on staring. And sitting. He shivered as water droplets made their way down the back of his neck, making their way through flesh and soul. "She always said…" He trailed off. His mother had said a lot of things. Now, she would say no more. Pray as much as he could, he had realized that the word of the departed was not meant for mortal ears.

"Come on," his father said, as he got to his feet. "Dinner's nearly ready."

Dante remained seated. The image of his mother smiled at him, and the recording reset.

"Dante?"

"She said she'd always be proud of me," he continued. "And with tensions raising in the border planets-"

"Dante, we talked about this."

"And I'll be sixteen next year." He looked up at his father. "I talked to a recruiter at school. The Marines are-"

"Dante, you are not becoming a soldier. And there isn't going to be a war." His father grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to get to his feet. "Now get inside. I won't hear any more of this."

"Father, I want to do something! I can't just lie in paradise while better men man the walls, and-"

"Enough!" His father threw the glass at the gravestone, shattering it. Not unlike his mother's body. "Dante…" He sighed, putting his hand back on his son's shoulder. "You're my son. You're only fifteen. You're far too young to think about these things. Especially fighting on the other side of the 'Verse."

"God will be with me Father. And it is still my choice."

The grasp tightened. "Not yet," his father said darkly. "And I pray that you will never have to make it."

Thunder rolled in the sky, hinting of a coming storm. The grass would grow. The soil will be replenished. By water, and not by blood.

"Now come inside."

His father turned and went to their house. Two stories, three bedrooms, and a lot of empty space. And yet he remained outside. Looking at the grave. At the gaze of Beatrice Lodovico. A recording. Falsehood, almost, for he knew that she was looking down at him.

"Watch over me Mother," he whispered.

And he turned to go inside as well. To follow his father into the light. And yet, find none.

 _And cast your light upon me._

Thunder rolled once more and he looked upwards. It was summer, and White Sun was still high in the sky. How long would that sky remain clear, he wondered? What if tensions between the core and border worlds continued to escalate? How long would Londinium be safe?

"Dante, come in!"

And if men like his father did not stand up, who would?

"Dante!"

"Coming," he called out. Giving one last glance at the sky, as thunder was joined by lighting. And the rain of the heavens was the released.

 _And the trumpet sounds._

And cast one last look at the grave as well. Knowing that the dead would never be raised.

Even as Armageddon loomed.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So, it's finally done. Or begun._

 _By way of clarification of that statement, the idea for this story was a challenge I set myself years ago - write a seven-chaptered story (1) where each of the seven chapters corresponds to one of the seven cardinal sins (similar to how_ Rainbow _corresponded to the seven traditional colours of the rainbow in its narrative). It didn't take me long to decide on writing a story that focused on the Operative from_ Serenity _, and...well, you'll see where that goes. What took slightly longer was writing it - this story began in December 2014, and now, in January 2016, have I finally managed to finish and start posting it._

 _So, hopefully it's worth the wait._

 _(1) Not including the prologue and epilogue. The idea for the prologue came about halfway through the story so I decided to go back and start the story earlier than otherwise intended._


	2. Greed

_Heaven wheels above you, displaying to you her eternal glories, and still your eyes are on the ground._

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Chapter 1: Greed**

The Alliance Landing Ship for Personnel was abbreviated as **ALSP**. It was a cousin to the Alliance Landing Ship for Tanks, itself designated **ALST**. The latter had earned the nickname of "A Large Slow Target," due to their slow rate of descent. The former had the nickname of "A Large Slow Pincushion" for the same reason. Not the most fitting nickname in the 'Verse, but with the differences between the two ships confined to what they carried, it was a nickname that had stuck. An easy picking for any Browncoat, whether they be manning an AA gun or flying a gunboat.

As far as Private Dante Lodovico was concerned, there was a much better word for both of these craft – "death traps." And he wouldn't have minded so much if it wasn't for the fact that he was riding in one of them – one of dozens deployed from the _Hubei_ -class carrier _Yichang_. Part of an Alliance attack on Sturges, to destroy the Independent position and get one step closer to ending the war.

"Relax Private, you're making me nervous."

He looked up from the floor of the ALSP and at Corporal Adolphe. His fireteam leader.

"I'm fine," Dante said.

"Go shi," she answered. "Come on Lodovico, we've got about fifteen minutes between now and reaching planetside. I'd like to get any second thoughts out of the way first."

"Second thoughts?" he asked, smiling. He looked around the cabin – an entire platoon's worth of soldiers, most of them older than he was, most of them of equal rank, and all of them enlisted as part of the great crusade to bring order to the 'Verse. "No. No second thoughts. But if I'm going to die, I…" He banged on the hull of the vessel, a welcoming echo sounding throughout the craft's interior. "Well, God created Man on Earth. I'd like to die on a similar world rather than in…well, nothing."

Adolphe laughed. "Don't worry Private, this'll be a cakewalk. The Brownies have no air support, no armour, they're easy pickings. We could bomb them from orbit if we wanted to."

"Then why don't we?"

Adolphe's smile faded.

"I'm serious," Dante continued. "They're terrorists. They want to destroy our way of life. We kill them now, how many lives would we save?"

"Lodovico, after what happened on Shadow-"

"I'm not afraid to fight, don't misunderstand me," he continued. "But there's nothing on Sturges of value, only that the Independents have been using it as a forward base to make inroads into White Sun. So why can't we just bomb them and save ourselves the trouble?"

Adolphe opened her mouth. But she never spoke.

Instead, her body was impaled with a harpoon. And sucked out as part of the hull gave way to the frigid air of Sturges's stratosphere.

Shouts and screams echoed throughout the craft as it plummeted to the surface. Grasping onto a support, closing his eyes, and praying for God's mercy, Dante thought of one thing. One pure, single thought in his mind.

 _The recruiter never told me this_ _would happen._

* * *

"Lodovico."

He coughed. It felt like he'd landed on solid ground.

"Lodovico!"

Scratch that – he _was_ on solid ground. His vision blurry, he began to blink. Darkness looked down at him from above, punctuated by balls of light.

"Wake up!"

And heat. But the heat was coming from something much closer. Something crackling away.

 _Am I in Hell?_

He felt himself being pulled along the ground, and he stared upward. The balls of light…there were two types. One was faint and distant, almost like stars. The others were much brighter, popping in and out of existence. Like the lifespan of a star, compressed to mere seconds. To shine bright, then be forgotten. Not unlike a human life.

 _I'm ready._

If God had judged him unworthy of being in His presence, he would accept His judgement. To dwell by fire, tormented by a sight of demons and angels doing battle in the sky above and-

"Mi tian gohn, wake up!"

And he did so, opening his eyes fully. Seeing the face of Sergeant Riggs, the leader of his squad; second squad of ninth platoon, Kilo Company, 29th Planetary Assault Division, Alliance Marines. Currently involved in an invasion of Sturges. An invasion that Dante was beginning to realize had started to go to hell.

Riggs pulled him to his feet and he glanced around. Fellow marines fanned out, away from the burning ALSP. Medivacs were touching down, along with more ALSTs and ALSPs. Fires, shouts, and screams echoed around him.

"You okay?" the sergeant asked.

"Where's Corporal…corporal…"

"Who?"

"Adolphe," Dante whispered. "My fireteam-"

"Dead," Riggs grunted. "I'm consolidating your fireteam with Lance Corporal Mann's." He gestured towards the marine in question. "Now move out."

Dante nodded. Mann. Barely older than he was, barely more experienced, not the person he would choose to lead two combined fireteams in what was already turning out to be an invasion gone south.

But he moved towards him anyway. Keeping his rifle close to his side. He-

"Incoming!"

Dived to the ground as a mortar hit the position, shrapnel flying through the air. More screams. More blood. More distractions as he got to his feet. Feet that took him over to the circle that Mann was overseeing. Looking at a data-pad. Which was a damn sight better than Private Nakia, who given the gunk around his month, had already been sick once.

Dante knelt down. Mann staggered as another mortar strike landed near them. The Alliance forces were establishing a beachhead, he could tell that much. He could also tell that they'd landed on the edge of a plain, one on the edge of a mountain range. No prizes for guessing where the Independents were. Why they could fire on them with impunity. And why, even as he saw a squadron of skiffs soar through the skies above, knew that it would take a ground assault to dislodge them.

"Alright, listen up!" Mann said. "Here's the sitch – we've got Independents in orbit engaging our craft – usual gunboat diplomacy. Intelligence suggests their fleet was on the other side of the planet, and timed their attack through ground-based observation." Another mortar round struck the camp – they were becoming more frequent, Dante noticed. "Luckily our attack ships are keeping them at bay." Another blast. More screams. "But it's a ground war from here on out. Word from Lieutenant Armdale is that we move out in ten."

"Move out?" voiced a private. "That's ten klicks across a killing field."

More blasts. And something else. Something that streaked up across the sky, leaving a contrail that wasn't missile propellant.

"Wou duh tian ah," a soldier whispered.

Dante couldn't blame her – a mass driver. The Independents had somehow got their hands on a mass driver. Hell, could have produced it for all he knew – even savages could fly starships, so why not other forms of technology?

"That's why we're moving out," Mann said. "Silence their artillery. We've got the fuckers outnumbered, so let's end this. Now."

A chorus of half-hearted affirmations echoed throughout the fireteam. Dante had to admit, he'd underestimated Mann. But the others…

He supposed he couldn't judge. So he remained silent as he watched Mann get on his radio, conferring with his superiors. Somewhere, someone was coordinating this.

"Shit!"

And doing a good job. Even as anti-aircraft fire ripped out from the hills, a skiff going down in flames.

"We're gonna die."

He looked at Nakia. He hadn't been sick again. But the illness in his spirit, that was plain to see.

"We're gonna fucking die."

"No," Dante said, kneeling down. "We're not."

Nakia looked at him.

"You know why?" he said. "Because we're fighting for something good. We're fighting for the future of human civilization. For peace, harmony, and a better tomorrow."

More blasts hit the landing area. He glanced as tanks began rolling out of their transports, along with APCs, IFVs, even tanks.

"So chin up," he said. "We're all in this together."

Nakia remained silent. He couldn't tell if the man believed what he said. But he believed that Nakia would at least fight.

"Alright," Mann said. "We've got transport, and the lieutenant's given the go-ahead." He hitched his belt and shouldered his rifle. "Saddle up. We're moving out."

Slowly, the fireteam obliged. And Dante uttered a small prayer.

Maybe this really was Hell, he supposed. Maybe God was punishing him for his sins. Maybe this was his test. Part of a divine comedy.

No matter. He would fight just the same.

* * *

When Dante charged out of the APC's rear hatch, ignoring the sound of fire and the smell of burnt flesh, he was reminded of the Charge of the Light Brigade.

He'd read about it in school on Londinium. A cavalry charge in one of the many wars that had plagued Earth-That-Was. The story of brave men who had charged an artillery battery, suffering heavy casualties, but ultimately eliminating their target. The men in the story had been lauded for their courage, the fact that they'd charged down the wrong valley only adding to the drama. Looking around, at the Alliance armour moving down the valley, as explosions rocked both earth and sky, he was reminded of the story. Brave men and women, charging into the jaws of Hell.

But he was only reminded for a moment. Because unlike that charge, he was here for a reason. They were on the right planet, charging the right position. There was no question as to what position they were meant to take. There was no error here.

"Move out!"

It was Mann who said it, and on his word, the marines began doing just that. Moving in sync with the armour, the vehicles laying down suppressing fire at the Brownies. Tracer fire shot through the night. Tracer fire came back at them.

"Steady," Mann said, his voice coming over the radio. "Ste-"

 **Crack.**

Mann fell down, his body convulsing. Blood pouring through his neck.

"Medic!"

Who'd shouted it, Dante didn't know. But the platoon's medic nonetheless rushed over to the corporal, trying to stabilize him.

"Get down!"

Dante dived as shells ran down on their position. Their armour returned the courtesy. It was like a shooting gallery, one where the range was kilometres long, and the ducks could fire back. He crawled across the ground, the marines firing with their rifles at the Independent positions.

 _Shit._

That was all he could think. The advance had stalled, and while the Alliance might have superior firepower, the Brownies had the better position. He glanced up at the sky, at the aerial ballet being raged. Contrails, missile propellant, a craft ending the dance every few seconds.

"Lodovico!"

He glanced up at Sergeant Riggs. The man's helmet was missing. Blood trailed down his face from a gash in his forehead.

"Sergeant?"

"Congratulations, you're a corporal now," Riggs said, crouching down. A quartet of marines did the same, a change from the norm in that they weren't older than he was. "Lodovico, you have fireteam three. Take these men, get to the right flank, and lay down suppressing fire on the Independents."

Dante nodded, thrill and fear warring in his stomach. A flanking manoeuvre. It would at least divide the Browncoats' attention. Glancing up the hills, he saw marines trying to get up the ridge, but it was a killing field.

"Alright, move!" Riggs yelled.

Dante did just that. He moved his team out – Nakia, Kanaw, Hammadi, and Burkina, going by their name tags. People he hadn't known until now. People whose names he wouldn't even know if not for the name tags on their body armour. Keeping low, they ran down the battleline, the sounds of cannon fire and screams ringing in their ears.

It was glorious, Dante reflected.

Before long, they'd reached the flank. There was an embankment that led up the hill to the Independent position, and Dante called the fireteam to a halt. They crouched down, and beckoning to Kanaw, he drew out some field binoculars. There were rocks, barbed wire, and more rocks. But no Brownies to be seen.

"Alright," he said to the fireteam. "We'll go by leapfrog. Burkina, Hammadi, you two first. Nakia, Kanaw, and myself, we'll follow."

"We're gonna die," Nakia whispered, causing Dante to glance at him. "We're gonna fucking die."

"Keep talking like that, and I'll kill you myself," Dante said. He glanced around the fireteam. "Anyone else?"

They shook their heads.

"We are here for a reason," Dante said. "A purpose. The Independents thought they could turn their backs on humanity. We're here to bring light to the dark. We're here to get up that ridge, and pour suppressing fire on those bastards. We are going to win Sturges, and we're going to be heroes." He smiled. He liked that speech. It felt…honest. "Now move!"

The fireteam did so. Burkina and Hammadi went first. Before long, he'd followed. Right up the slope, towards the-

 **Crack!**

"Sniper!"

He kept running as Kanaw fell to the ground, clutching her leg, screaming. Nakia stopped moving and tried to help her.

 _Damn it._

He grabbed Kanaw's right arm, Nakia grabbing the left. They pulled her up the hill, a trail of blood seeping into the dirt.

"My leg," she moaned. "They got my leg."

"Course they did," Dante said. "It's a sniper. Wound the target, don't kill it." He looked around. "Hammadi, check the wound. Burkina, comms. Nakia, take these," he said, handing him the field binoculars. "Positions, numbers. I want a sitrep in ten seconds."

All three men obliged. Dante put his ear to the transceiver while Kanaw moaned.

"Shit!"

Browncoats opened fire at them from up the hill. A lot of Browncoats.

"You want numbers?!" Nakia yelled, firing back with his rifle after throwing the binoculars aside, taking cover behind the rock. "There's your fucking numbers!"

Dante bit his lip and fired back. Single shots, much in contrast to Nakia's spray and pray approach.

 **Bam. Bam. Bam.**

Nakia yelled and fired. So did the Browncoats. It was war. Kill or be killed.

 **Bam. Bam. Bam.**

Dante grinned as a Browncoat fell. Wounded, dead, he couldn't tell. But it didn't matter. Dead, that was one less enemy. Wounded, that was one wounded enemy, and the obligation for more enemies to take care of them.

He'd read about war, long before he enlisted. It wasn't widely known that it was preferable in the long run to wound, rather than kill. As Kanaw's screams attested to, while Hammadi treated her.

 **Bam. Bam. Bam.**

But killing was just fine. Especially as the Browncoats kept firing. As their artillery kept raining fire on the valley below.

"Comms!" Burkina yelled. "I've got comms!"

Dante took hold of the radio. Burkina hesitated.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Dante hissed. "Fire!"

Burkina nodded and did just that. Crouching down, Dante listened to the feed.

"…bom…res…fire…"

"Lieutenant Armdale, this is Corporal Lodovico," he said. "We're in position and have eyes on the enemy, currently engaged."

Nakia cursed, blood pouring from his arm.

"Very engaged."

"…bom…ret…air…"

"Lieutenant Armdale, we-"

"Pull out! Get out!"

"Lieutenant?"

"The Navy's ordering an orbital bombardment. Get back to the transports now. We-"

There was an explosion and a scream on the other end, followed by static. And Dante knew two things. The first was that Lieutenant Armdale was dead. The second was that, if that were true, if an orbital strike was about to be used…

…then they'd be dead too.

"Corporal," Nakia said, his voice slurred. "I think I-"  
"Shut up," Dante hissed. "We're moving out."

"What?" Hammadi asked, staring up at him in shock.

"The Navy…" Dante took a breath. "The Navy's ordered an orbital bombardment. Saturation."

Even in the gloom, he could see the horror on their faces. Less than an hour ago he'd been discussing the prospect with Corporal Adolphe. It had been a discussion made on the assumption that only Independents were there. And even then, Adolphe's hesitance had been understandable – any object could be used for an orbital strike. Problem was, orbital strikes had disastrous consequences for a planet, mainly the amount of dust that was left in the atmosphere. That had happened to Shadow, a planet bombed to oblivion, to the extent that nothing would ever grow there again. And now, a year into the war, that same tactic was about to be used again.

"We're moving out," he said, glancing back at the Alliance line. Transports were taking off, and a wave of armour and men were making their way to them. "We're moving out now."

"Lodovico, Kanaw can barely walk."

"I…I can," she said, getting to her feet. "I…" She moaned, collapsing down to the ground.

"Sir, the bullet's shattered her leg. We-"

"Leave her."

The men stared at him. And Kanaw as well.

"We'll have to run," he said. "Run, and not look back."

"We can't just-"

"Move!" he yelled, dragging Nakia to his feet. "We're going now, and-"

 **Crack!**

Nakia fell to the ground, screaming, clutching his shoulder.

And Dante ran. As the Independents fired at him, as shouts, screams, and shots echoed from his fireteam as they remained in place. All the while, he ran.

Not looking back.

* * *

The _Trebuchet_ -class battlecruiser weighed 190,000 tonnes, was equipped with long-range missile batteries for space combat, and ten heavy guns that fired kinetic warheads. Unguided, and useless against practically anything that moved in space smaller than a space station, but perfect for things that _didn't_ move. Such as a planet. In this case, Sturges.

IAV _Warwolf_ was such a battlecruiser, commanded by a Captain Mardi Kommenos. Captain Kommenos had ordered the _Warwolf_ to unleash a kinetic bombardment on Sturges, in light of the "deteriorating situation" on both the ground, and in space. Kommenos had either not known, or not cared, that the Alliance's fast attack ships had decimated the Independents' jury-rigged gunboats, or that progress was being made on the ground. Nor had he known, or cared, that planetary bombardment had been outlawed as a method of war by the Alliance after the destruction of Shadow. The net result was that a sizable chunk of Sturges was now under a dust cloud, and Kommenos had been taken away for court martial.

Or at least, that was what Dante had heard. And staring out into space from the _Yichang_ , he reflected how that account was one of a dozen he'd sampled, how it all ranged from Kommenos taking the fall for people of higher rank, to the Independents faking the whole thing to gain sympathy. He also reflected that talk was cheap. The battle was over, on both space and the ground. Kommenos, whatever his intentions, had done what should have been ordered at the start. But now, with friendly forces on the ground, the captain had likely managed to ensure that the Alliance would never utilize the same tactic in order to save face, and placate the bleeding hearts in the Alliance parliament. Even Shadow, as terrible as it was, had casualties on only one side.

And bleeding hearts weren't what he needed. Not while his own did the same. He placed a hand against the glass. Telling himself that there was no blood on it. Holding it there to stop it from shaking. Clenching his left fist by his side, as the screams of his team echoed in his ears.

 _I ran._

And he continued to run, as he turned away from the window and headed deeper into the ship. Trying to ignore the smell of blood, and sound of screams as the wounded were taken to the medical bays. Screams that sounded too much like his fireteam as he ran for his life.

He told himself that their deaths were quick. He'd told Sergeant Riggs that they'd been killed in action, and the NCO had left it at that. So many had died today, and there was no chance of their bodies ever being discovered. He'd done the only thing he could have done to keep himself alive. That Kanaw was as good as dead as soon as she'd been shot, and Nakia, Hammadi, and Burkina had sealed their fate as soon as they'd decided to not accept that fact.

And yet he'd sinned. Deep down, he knew his actions were just… _wrong_. So it was why he entered the ship's chapel. Taking him back to his youth on Londinium, when he'd gone to church with Father and Mother. Before Mother departed this world, and Father became…something else.

 _Hwen dan._

He stored such uncharitable thoughts for later, and focused on his current predicament. Some said that Man had conquered space, and proven that God wasn't home. A man from Earth-That-Was had also said that trying to disprove God was like Macbeth searching for Shakespeare in the attic. Dante didn't know, bar the fact that he liked _Macbeth_ , even if it wasn't his favourite Shakespeare play. He made his way to the confessional, but it was one of many options available – there was a white star, a silver cross, a golden lotus, a yin and yang…the "chapel" as it was called, was in reality a hub for anyone who believed in something greater than themselves. So-

"Fucking moron."

And he stopped. Someone was already in there.

"Yes, it's true. The _Warwolf_ bombed the area."

Someone talking in a most non-confessional manner.

"Yes, the credits are gone. We could have funded this war ten times over with that cash. I mean, seriously – billions of credits buried beneath a giant crater."

Someone who had the voice of Sergeant Riggs.

"Look, there'll always be rumours. People will wonder why Sturges was fought over at all. People might even try to find the loot. Search the wrecks above the planet."

 _Cash?_

"Oh, the Independents knew. Least those in command did. But you think they're going to admit to sending their own men to die to defend it? Blood money is a universal concept."

 _Oh my God._

"Look, whatever. All those men died because of money, and it's likely been blasted to oblivion by kinetic warheads. No-one will care in ten years' time, no-one will know Sturges existed in a century. Just drop it."

Dante felt ill. His chest tightened, his eyes widened, his hands began to shake and sweat.

"Yeah, whatever. Special Operations can complain all they want. We've still got a war to fight. No, my cover isn't blown."

Was Riggs a spy, Dante wondered? Or, even more horribly…

"Hang on."

And his breath caught in his throat. His heart stopped. He slowly began to back away. He slowly turned around. Only then did he go to leave and-

And tripped, as a grapple wrapped itself around his legs. Courtesy of Sergeant Riggs, who'd exited the confessional. Hiding a communicator in the pocket of his uniform.

"Ching soh!" Dante yelled. "Ching soh!"

"Dante Lodovico," Riggs murmured, walking around him. "Of all the people to seek forgiveness, I didn't think you'd be the one here."

"Chwee ni duh!"

"Oh be quiet," Riggs said. "This isn't helping anyone."

"Help," Dante whispered. "What would a traitor know about helping?"

"Traitor?" Riggs asked. "What makes you think I'm a traitor?"

"You…you were…"

"What I was doing was having a conversation no-one was meant to hear," Riggs said. He smiled. "Believe it or not, there aren't that many people who come into the chapel. And by naval law, the chapel is free of any surveillance equipment."

"But…you…"

"What I am is none of your concern," Riggs said. He knelt down, unfastening the grapple. "And what you're going to do, Private Lodovico, is forget you ever saw me, or that you heard anything."

"Why?"

"Because then I'll tell everyone that you left your fireteam to die and ran like a coward."

Dante's heart didn't just stop. It imploded.

"Yes," Riggs said, not skipping a beat. "I know the truth, thanks to orbital surveillance. But I don't particularly care either – as far as I'm concerned, you did the right thing. Others, though…well, they may not see it in the same light."

The grapple was unfastened and Dante got to his feet. Trying to meet Riggs's gaze. Plain. His face was plain, the missing ear notwithstanding. His eyes were plain. His body was muscular, but not to excess. He was a soldier, yet had none of the hallmarks of one. No scars. No haunted look. For someone who'd just been in battle, he was positively unfazed.

"Is it true?" Dante whispered.

"Is what?" Riggs asked, starting to walk out.

"The battle," he whispered. "Was it fought over-"

"It was fought for whatever reasons the Alliance says it was fought," Riggs said. "And you'll believe them."

"Why?"

"Because you're a believer yourself, Lodovico. I can see it." He smiled. "Keep that in mind."

And he exited. As if nothing had happened. For a moment, Dante stood there. A moment that lasted for an eternity. The universe spun, the stars died, and planets withered. All as he stood there.

And then he entered the confessional, closing the curtain behind him, taking a seat on the pew. Meeting his gaze in the mirror – dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. He felt like the opposite of Riggs physically.

 _Because then I'll tell everyone you left your fireteam and ran like a coward._

But the same mentally. Dirty. Unclean. As if his very presence defiled the ship.

"Forgive me Lord," he whispered, crossing his heart. "For I have sinned."

He doubted God was listening.

"I have sinned, and taken part in sin."

But he talked anyway.

"I have killed. I have led men astray. And I have borne witness to a sin greater than myself."

He thought of Riggs – he only had his word for it that he was on the Alliance's side. For all he knew he'd let a traitor slip through his grasp. And stopping a traitor, even at the cost of his own life, would have been worth it. He still believed that.

"I have seen men die for the sin of greed. I have seen men war over the material. And forgive me lord, for I warred as well."

Money. Sturges had been fought over _money_. Even if he'd done the things he'd done unintentionally, he still felt ill.

"I believe," he whispered. "I believe in…"

And he stopped. God. The Alliance. Himself. He didn't know what he believed anymore. Except-

"Are you even there?" he whispered. He closed his eyes, trying to feel God's presence. As he had done in times gone by, with his parents, back on Londinium.

"Are you listening?"

There was no answer.

 _Is Mother there?_

Silence remained in the chapel, far removed from the cries of Men.

"Oh Lord?"

God, he reflected. God, if he existed, was letting this happen. God had let Earth die. Had let Earth's sons and daughters butcher each other in a star system 40 light years from Sol.

"Hast thou forsaken me?"

All that remained was silence.

As the sounds of war echoed elsewhere.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _As far as liberties went when writing this story (expect a bit more canon-bending later on), this is comparatively mild, but probably still worth mentioning. In this case, the Battle of Sturges. Going over_ Those Left Behind _, while it's known that there was a space battle, a planet is shown nearby, which I would be inclined to call Sturges. Battles are often named after their location after all. There's only Badger's word that it was fought over a horde of money, but the implication seems to be in the comic that he was either lying (in that none is found), or that Mal and co. simply got out of the debris field because they had to and never looked back due to having been tracked by both Dobson and the Hands of Blue. Came up with the idea that the loot was on the planet rather than on a ship. Like I said, stretching things, but hopefully within credulity._


	3. Sloth

_Here one must leave behind all hesitation; here every cowardice must meet its death._

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Chapter 2: Sloth**

The Cortex was an interplanetary communication network that covered the bulk of the 'Verse. It was a means of accessing information, along with providing a means of real-time communication across star systems. It was heavily monitored by the Alliance, but there were always ways of getting around that. And besides, anyone could send a normal tightbeam transmission at lightspeed. It could take hours, even days to reach its target, but at least it was untraceable.

Right now, Lieutenant Dante Lodovico, member of the elite Special Alliance Support unit, cared little about that. Only that the Cortex worked at all, that he had clearance to send a transmission from IAV _Alfred_ to Londinium. And that the intended recipient would be there to answer it.

"Hello?"

And there he was. Virgil Lodovico. 61 years old, 138 kilos, large, bald, and a waste of flesh and bone. And also his father.

"Dante?"

His estranged father.

"Hello," the lieutenant said. "It's been awhile."

"Awhile?" his father spluttered. "Awhile?! You think contacting me after five years of nothing is awhile?"

"Five years, two months, and twenty-two days, to be exact," Dante murmured. He fiddled with his dog tags, their silver contrasting against his black t-shirt. "I see you've been living well."

 _And eating well._

"Is that a joke?" Virgil snapped.

"What do you think Father?"

"What do I think?" he whispered, reminding Dante of the bulls he'd seen on Shenandoah – large, muscular beasts that could feed a man as regularly as gorge him. "You take off five years ago to join up in some useless war, after your mother died?" He spat at the screen. "Guay toh guay nown, what the fuck do you think I think?"

Dante shrugged. Father hadn't changed. Father was still living the good life of a Coreworlder, quite content to let others fight the war that would allow that life to continue. He looked at Virgil, seeing a chain around his neck – there was likely a cross, under his shirt somewhere, provided that his chest hadn't engulfed it. Again, he fiddled with his dog tags. His own faith, he reflected – faith in Man, not God. God had been silent for four years. Even while part of him still believed.

His parents had taken him to church, he remembered. His parents had raised him "nice and proper," as they called it. Then Mother had died, and Father became less strict in his observance. And that was all the opening he needed to leave and join something greater than himself. Something in the material world. Like food. And drink. And more food.

"Why are you here?" Virgil snarled. "Why now?"

"Well, Father," Dante began, swivelling around in his chair. "I'm about to partake in an operation of extreme importance and high risk. There's every chance I might die, so I thought I might as well get it out."

"Get what out?"

"That I don't regret any of it. Leaving home, joining the Marines, fighting this war. That I don't care if I ever see you again. And that you're a fat pig who never contributed anything to civilization."

Virgil swore, and bellowed, sounding like a dying horse. And Dante smiled.

"Do you know what your sin is, father?" he asked. "It's sloth."

And with that he shut off the feed. The image of Virgil Lodovico disappeared, being replaced by the figures C3:04 – his credit fee. He confirmed the charge, and got to his feet, knowing that he was now a bit poorer. And that chances were, by the end of today, it wouldn't even matter.

 _Well, how can man die better than facing fearful odds?_

Far better not to die at all, so that a man could continue to face fearful odds, triumph, and make the universe a better place for it, he reflected. But looking around his quarters, the single bed upon which lay his uniform, the undecorated walls, the few books he had with him, he could not help but admire Horatius. He admired many things about the Romans – the conquerors, the builders of civilization, the people who had left their legacy on Western culture for centuries. An older, civilized culture. And one he took comfort in, as the Independents sought to destroy civilization in this corner of the galaxy.

 **Team Alpha,** came a voice over the intercom. **Team Alpha to briefing room three immediately.**

Dante glanced at the section of the wall that held his mirror, wondering if his father still saw him as the boy he'd been when they last spoke, as he'd stormed out the door in a rage. The boy who'd been less muscular, less tall, and with less hair across his chin and cheeks, and with more hair on his head. And less scars on his body.

 **Team Alpha to briefing room,** repeated the intercom.

And he wondered why he even cared what his father believed. Why now, after every mission he'd done, he cared about what Virgil Lodovico thought of him.

 **Team Alpha to briefing room,** came the intercom for a third time.

Maybe it was because he knew that there was indeed a good chance he would die today.

And as he put on his uniform, bearing his rank, name, and insignia, he told himself he didn't mind.

For after all, hadn't Horatius said that death would come for all men in the end anyway?

* * *

The _Alfred_ was a _Victoria_ -class corvette, a stealth vessel usually reserved for special operations. Right now, it was in orbit of the planet Hera, a world situated between the Core and the Border Planets. It was a planet that held the key to victory for either side. And entering the room and finding his team waiting, saluting General Wilkins, Dante had no reason to believe that the general wasn't aware of this.

"At ease," Wilkins said.

Dante joined the three men and one woman that made up his unit – Team Alpha 13 was their official designation, Spectre Team their unofficial one. An atmospheric insertion squad reserved for operations behind enemy line. Espionage, sabotage, extraction…one of many units with the SAS. It was a unit Dante had been with for a couple of years, his prowess on the battlefield getting him transferred from the 29th. Having fought on worlds from Sturges to Ares, from Ezra to Regina, the SAS wanted him. And he'd been quite happy to accept.

"This is Hera," Wilkins said, the room darkening and showing an image of the planet in question. The hologram changed as it focused on a specific region of the planet in its north-western hemisphere. "And this is Serenity Valley." The general looked at the operatives. "I don't need to tell you what's been happening over the past month."

He didn't, Dante reflected. If Hera was the key to victory or defeat in this war, then Serenity Valley was the key to Hera. General Craig had publically declared that the Alliance was going to waltz through the valley, and achieve victory in 24 hours. Now, five weeks later, Hera was still in Independent hands, Serenity Valley had turned into a bloodbath, and General Craig was doing his best to escape an inquest from the Alliance parliament. It would have been amusing, Dante thought, if casualty figures weren't running as high as over 150,000. And that was just on the Alliance side.

"In six hours' time, Operation Placid will be in effect," Wilkins said. Blips appeared on the map, depicting the Independent position, and the Alliance forces trying to push through. More blips appeared in the space above the valley, representing aerospace craft, along with blips to the south. "Deep flank attack, straight through Tranquil Pass. Landing craft, with air support, will deploy in the valley proper."

A flank attack that still relied on taking the fight to the enemy directly. Well, it was still better than Craig's strategy of "keep charging," Dante reflected.

"Where do we come in?" asked one of his team members.

"Here," Wilkins said. The map highlighted a base marked with the Independent flag, over twenty klicks north from the valley. "Fort Minerva, home of the Independent Fourteenth Tank Brigade. It's within striking distance of Tranquil Pass. If their armour is deployed, the operation's entire timetable could be thrown into jeopardy."

"They've got an airfield though," Spectre Three murmured, gesturing to a nearby base. "What about that?"

"Wolverton Airfield, base of the 82nd Attack Squadron," the general answered. "But don't worry about them. If they get deployed airside, we'll have the air cover to deal with them."

Dante frowned – air combat. The Alliance had Hera blockaded, and what remained of the Independents' space forces weren't going to break through anytime soon. But atmospheric combat was another story. Many times in the war, the Alliance Navy had achieved space superiority, only to forget that air superiority was something else entirely. Even to the extent of the fleet having to pull out if the Independents had anti-orbital weapons.

"Get rid of the armour," Wilkins said. "Both bases are protected by mass drivers, so even if I could get authorization for an orbital strike, it's too risky to deploy a capital ship in respective orbit." The hologram showed a representation of the _Alfred_ hovering above the planet, with pods coming out of it. "You're going to be dropped within ten klicks of the fort. After that, your mission is to destroy or disable the Independent armour by any means necessary."

"What about extraction?" Dante asked.

"The drop pods will be the standard fallback position. But if you pull this off, you won't need extraction," Wilkins said. "Hera will be ours, and this war will be over."

And there it was, Dante reflected. The unsaid statement that death was the only alternative. Either come back victorious, or not at all. Like Sparta, another culture of Earth-That-Was he admired.

He decided he liked Wilkins. The man looked unremarkable, talked unremarkable, and walked unremarkable. And was competent. The opposite of Craig in every way.

"Deployment is in fifteen," Wilkins said, deactivating the hologram. "Godspeed."

The squad saluted.

* * *

"What's the difference between a life pod and a drop pod?"

"What?"

"None. Except the life pod takes you away from danger. The drop pod takes you into it."

Laughter echoed throughout the radio feed of Spectre Team. Laughter Dante didn't join in, nor silence. Laughter was good. Laughter was a natural way of dealing with fear. But laughter was jovial, carefree. And being carefree could get you killed.

"Adjust trajectory by four degrees."

The quintet of pods did so, the laughter gone. All that was left was the sound of the pod's engines. And the blood pumping in his ears as they descended through Hera's atmosphere.

Spectre Five had been right though, he reflected. There _was_ no difference. Both pods were unshielded, both pods had minimal propulsion, and both were identical in design – basically nothing more than a tube a human was lowered into and fired out of a ship, with barely any room to move. The only difference here was that his pod was carrying extra packs of ammunition, and a large as hell 54R sniper rifle. And it was weight that was making adjusting his pod's trajectory more than a mite difficult.

"Distance to surface?" he asked over the radio.

"Calibrating," came the voice of Spectre Two. She answered, "fifty klicks. We'll enter the troposphere in two minutes."

"Acknowledged," he said. "Squad, final calibration. Zone in."

Again, the squad obliged. And through the pod's viewscreen, Dante observed the topographical display – nice flat fields, far removed from the rolling hills of Serenity Valley. Hera was an agricultural world, and the landscape didn't disappoint.

"Forty klicks," Spectre Two said.

It was night in Hera's western hemisphere. And it would remain so for the next twelve hours. Come dawn, Hera would be a member of the Union of Allied Planets, as it had one been. Come dawn, the war would be over.

"Thirty klicks."

"Engage retro-thrusters," Dante said.

"Engaging."

The pods began to slow their descent, and he smiled. Come dawn, Spectre Team would be-

"Incoming!"

The topographic map was replaced with a live-feed, showing projectiles coming their way.

"Ta ma duh!" Spectre Three exclaimed. "Anti-aircraft fire!"

An AA gun. Applying night vision and zooming in, Dante saw the source – an AA gun mounted on a horse-drawn wagon.

 _The retro-thrusters. They must have seen them flare up._

"Deactivate thrusters," Dante said, adjusting his pod's trajectory to avoid the fire. "Get to the ground, and spread out. We're taking out that sha gwa as soon as we land."

"Sir, without the thrusters-"

"Just do it!"

It would be risky. The pods could hit the ground with some force and survive, but the human body was a fragile thing. But it was much better than the alternative of being shredded by 12mm anti-aircraft rounds.

"Shit!" Spectre Three exclaimed "I'm hit!"

Dante switched his viewscreen's feed to his pod's port camera. Spectre Three's pod was on fire.

"Spectre Three, you-"

Then it exploded. And Spectre Three screamed.

And then there was nothing but debris falling through the sky. Mixing in with the anti-air fire, like a dance of death.

 _Shit._

He knew the man's name. He could have cried it out. But Spectre Team, like so many other SAS units, rarely used real names. A name meant attachment. A name meant that you weren't a faceless soldier who would quite likely die.

 _Like Three…_

Spectre Three was dead. Spectre Team was one man down, and they hadn't even landed yet. And that casualty rate could increase very soon.

 _Shit!_

He zoomed the camera out as far as he could. There was a farmhouse, but it was out of range, and the wood wouldn't provide any protection anyway. The cart was on a gravel road – a killing field if he landed on it.

 _Come on, come on._

The only possible safety was a drainage ditch. But even then, that was-

"Slow descent," he said.

"What?"

"I said slow descent!"

He didn't have time to explain. He could only hope that in the time difference between him landing, and Spectre Team following, the gunner would train his eyes on the pods. And in those few crucial seconds, he could take the wei shian dohn woo out.

His pod hit the ground and the door burst open. He grabbed his battle rifle, leaving the sniper rifle in the pod. No time for subtlety now, after all. He dived into the ditch, listening for the sounds of gunfire, and the other pods.

"More are coming!" one of the Browncoats yelled.

He peaked up at the road as the gun turret continued to blaze away at the descending pods. There were two men, one manning the gun, the other holding the horse in place, while also firing at his position with a pistol. Puffs of grass filled the air.

 _Fuck this._

He ran forward, firing bursts from his battle rifle. The one firing at him yelled as a bullet hit his shoulder, throwing off his aim. As Dante charged, he could see the man's face. See that he was just a boy. A teenager, fighting an adult's war. For all he knew, he could have been the gunner's son.

He shot him in the head anyway.

The Browncoat manning the AA gun stopped firing and screamed something, picking up his own pistol. Unfortunately for him, the terrified horse began to gallop, causing him to fall off and hit the ground. Dante dashed over, dropping his rifle and drawing out his combat knife. The Browncoat drew the pistol on him as he rose to his feet, firing…

…and Dante dodged to the side, shivering as he felt the bullet whizz past him. He grabbed the man's arm and twisted it, allowing him to get behind him and cut his throat.

"Ssh," he whispered, as the Browncoat struggled, dropping his pistol, trying to stem the flow of blood. "It's alright. It's alright."

The man continued to flail for a few moments before he went limp. Slowly, Dante laid him down on the ground.

"This is a good death," he whispered, watching the life leave the soldier's eyes. "There's no shame in this."

He was the enemy. This man had taken the life of Spectre Three. But now, in this moment, filled with the intimacy of taking a life…he could not help but marvel at the sight before him. And feel the need to do something to sanctify the act. He had killed before. Many times actually. But usually at a distance. And never in the heat of battle such as this.

He watched as the rest of Spectre Team touched down, climbing out of their pods.

They'd landed.

* * *

Dante cleaned the blood from his knife as the Brownies' bodies were dumped into the ditch. Had they the time, they would have incinerated them – there was every chance the Independents could find them and raise the alarm, provided that the pair hadn't done so already. That, and there was still a horse running around with an AA gun, which was bound to raise a few eyebrows. But looking at his chronometer attached to his jumpsuit, Dante knew that time was of the essence.

"Where do you think they were headed?" Spectre Two asked, coming to stand beside him. "Serenity Valley?"

"Maybe." He glanced towards the south, the fires and sounds of the battle reaching him even here. "Long way though. They could have been headed for another position."

"Fuck it," Four murmured, walking up from the ditch. "We're already one man down and this mission hasn't even begun."

"You have a problem Four?" Dante asked.

"No Sir," he said. "Just stating the facts."

"Right. Facts." He glanced at his chrono. "Fact is that we have five hours and thirty-six minutes to travel ten klicks and sabotage an entire armour brigade." He walked over to his pod, headed for his sniper rifle. "We've got to travel hard and fast, so I suggest we get a move on with that."

"All four of us?" Five asked.

"All four," Dante said, slinging the rifle over his back. "Why? You want to be Spectre Four now?"

"No Sir."

"Good." He beckoned the squad to come round as he laid out a map on the ground. He shone a torch over it. "Here's a map of the region. We'll cut through the fields, spend as little time on the roads as possible. Might take longer, but at this point, first priority is to avoid detection."

 _Provided that hasn't happened already._

"The fort though," Two pointed out. "That's sure to have a heavy Indie presence."

"No doubt," said Dante, tracing a route on the map with a finger. "Which is why we'll approach it from the east. It'll take longer, but it's bordered by ten acres of farmland."

"And when we get there?" Four asked. "I know our mission mandate is to knock it out, but-"

"We'll deal with that when we come to it," Dante said. "Now move out. We can't afford to be slothful."

Silently, the squad obeyed. Like the spectre of their namesake, they got off the road, becoming ghosts in the night.

 _Sloth._ He frowned. _They're not my father._

For a moment, Dante lingered, looking at the two soldiers in the ditch. Wondering where they'd been headed. Whether the roads held any more surprises. Whether they'd been content to die fighting for a worthless cause.

But only for a moment.

After all, killing was not listed as a sin.

And he had killed for a reason, after all.

* * *

Dante peered through the binoculars at Fort Minerva. Why it was called that he didn't know – Hera took its namesake from Greek mythology, whereas Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom. And wisdom was something the Outer Planets had in short supply. Otherwise they wouldn't still be fighting this gorram war."

"Well then," Spectre Two murmured. "This sucks."

He didn't smile, even if he agreed. The fort was surrounded by a chain-link fence, with watchtowers at regular intervals, all of them with a searchlight. A single fortified gate was the only way in or out of the base, complete with a guardhouse, sandbags, and machine guns. And the base itself…well, there were tanks. And IFVs. And APCs. And every kind of armoured vehicle that could deliver heavy firepower quickly and effectively, along with a buttload of infantry.

"How come they're here?" Spectre Five asked. "Why not at the valley?"

"The valley's make or break," Dante murmured. "We know it, the Independents know it, and because they know that we know, they don't want to show their hand unless they have to." He lowered the binoculars. "Why do you think they're holding back air support?"

No-one answered.

"Exactly," Dante said. "In battle, you never deploy all your forces at once, and besides, they don't know enough. Hate to admit it, but we don't know that much either."

"Like what?" Spectre Four asked.

"Numbers," he said. "And I doubt the higher-ups even knew this base existed until recently, considering how late this operation was put together." He looked at his chrono. "Forty-two minutes. That's how long we have. If that armour gets on the road we'll have no chance of stopping it."

He glanced back at the squad – they had their share of heavy explosives. Spectre Five had packed a rocket launcher with HEAT rounds, while Spectre Four had an LMG with armour-piercing rounds. Enough to take out a few armoured vehicles and the crews inside. But nowhere near enough to take out a regiment of angry and armed Browncoats.

"So what's the plan?" Two asked.

Dante remained silent – the loss of Spectre Three meant that his team had already suffered 20% casualties. A percentage that paled to the carnage going on in Serenity Valley, but it was a loss he could ill afford. And yet, looking at the base, he was left wondering what difference it would make. Five men against a force of hundreds was about as good as four men against a force of hundreds.

 _But we don't have to kill them all. Ideally we wouldn't have to kill any of them._

"Forty minutes," said Five.

"We flank around," Dante said. "Approach it from the north." He looked at the squad, picking up his sniper rifle. "Standard infiltration – cut the fence, I knock off a guard tower, we all get in."

"And then?"

"Then we find the fuel depot and the armour. We use explosives, we time them to the moment Operation Placid begins. We may not be able to destroy them all, but we put them into as much confusion as possible at the right time, it may make any intervention academic."

"And us?" Two asked.

"We go home as heroes," Dante said. "And the war ends."

No-one in the squad responded, and he couldn't blame them. The chances of survival were low, and the plan hinged on doing enough damage to a base they didn't even have the layout for. And commandos were never heralded as heroes. Confidentiality and all that.

But they couldn't back down. They couldn't give into cowardice or sloth.

"Now let's move out."

He, couldn't.

* * *

The plan started off without a hitch.

With a single shot, at a range of 259.31 metres, Dante shot the guard at the tower near where the rest of Spectre Team was cutting their way through the fence. Normally, snipers relied on spotters. But he was anything but normal. No-one normal could fire a 7.62mm round through a silenced rifle, killing a Browncoat, and making sure the base was none the wiser.

"Tower down," he whispered into his radio. "Move."

150 metres from the base's perimeter, three SAS operatives moved forward to the fence while their leader kept his eye on his rifle's scope, scanning for other threats.

"We're in," Spectre Two whispered eventually.

"Hostiles?"

"Negative."

"Good. Hold position."

Shouldering his rifle, Dante sprinted across the grass to the hole in the fence. It would have been safer to stay in position. But the guard tower would give him the better vantage point. It was the plan they had agreed on beforehand. And at the hole in the fence, he crouched down, meeting with his team.

"Go," Two whispered.

The team covering angles of approach, Dante sprinted up the tower's ladder, quickly reaching the top. And propping his rifle on the tower's railing, looking out over the base, he got to work.

"Fuel depot to your southwest," he whispered into the radio. "There's what looks like a quartermaster's building nearby. Flank around."

"Hostiles?"

"I can see four guards at the depot," Dante whispered, looking at the Browncoats by the tanks. "Another five at the office."

"Roger. We're oscar mike."

Dante traced the route they took. Before long, they'd gone out of sight, so he scanned the camp. Searchlights illuminated the concrete, men and women milling about. Almost as if there wasn't actually a war going on.

"Hostile down," Four whispered.

"Watch it," he whispered. "The less bodies, the better."

It didn't stop them from easily taking out the Browncoats at the depot. He even got the first shot in before they killed the rest, their silenced weapons working quickly and effectively.

Dante glanced at the Indie that had manned the tower, the body just lying there beside him. He reached down and pulled at the man's dog tags. B. Sardinian, born March 17, 2488. Taoist, blood type AB. And right now, confirmed dead.

"Setting charges," Spectre Two said over the radio.

Dante pocketed the dog tags. It meant nothing, he told himself. This was not a sin.

"Charges set." She laughed uneasily. "Don't go starting the fireworks early."

"Affirmative." Dante had a detonator. They all did – the explosives would react to a specific carrier wave that could be triggered by any of Spectre Team. They-

"Shit."

"What?"

"Hostiles," Dante whispered. "Move now."

Spectre Team sprinted across the base, headed for the vehicles. Dante looked at the two Browncoats heading for fuel depot. He could take out one, but there was every chance that the second would sound the alarm before he could be knocked off as well. The Spectres had moved the bodies out of the open, but there were only so many places to hide them. And the lack of standing guards at the depot was sure to arouse suspicion.

"Sly Fox to White Mouse."

He glanced at the guard tower's interior. At the radio mounted on the desk.

"Sly Fox to White Mouse."

 _Shit._

He hadn't expected this. Regular radio checks. And not only a radio check, but one that almost certainly relied on a specific response for an all clear.

 _Shit!_

He headed into the tower's interior, looking for anything that might give him the 'all clear' signal. Some kind of codebook, handwritten notes, anything.

"Sly Fox to White Mouse, please respond, over."

"We have a problem," Dante said into his radio.

"So do we. The vehicles have crews all over them. I think they're getting ready to move out."

"They're asking for a radio check," Dante said, heading out of the tower. It could have been his imagination, but he could swear there were more Browncoats walking around now. He checked his chrono – 31 minutes. Either Operation Placid had started early, or the Brownies were on their way to reinforce Serenity Valley anyway. He glanced for any signs of Brownies heading for the tower. There were none yet but-

"Spectre One," said Four, "if you're got a problem, I'm all for hearing a solution. Because we're not taking out this armour without someone noticing us."

"Alright then," said Dante. "I'll make them notice something else."

"What?"

"I'll detonate the fuel dump," he said. "That'll give you some cover."

"To do what?"

"To get in an IFV, and do as much damage as you can."

"You're kidding."

"Sly Fox to White Mouse, respond!"

"Heads up," he said. "It's gonna be loud."

No-one on Spectre Team answered. Not when he took out the detonator, not when he looked at the detonator, not when he primed the detonator.

And certainly not when he used it.

Not that he'd have been able to hear them anyway.

* * *

It was chaos.

Flames blazed away in the night, the sounds of sirens, shots, and screams forming a dissonant symphony. The flames from the fuel dump. The screams from the Independents. And the shots…well, some of them came from various types of firearms, but most notably were the shots coming from the I-04 _Gazelle_ , a highly mobile, hard hitting infantry fighting vehicle that Spectre Team had acquired. Rumbling through the base, machine guns blazing away at infantry, while 40mm rounds fired from its autocannons targeted the base's armour.

And Dante remained in the tower. He figured that "Sly Fox" had better things to do than worry about "White Mouse." But still, he kept he kept his sniper rifle trained on the action. He didn't fire – no need to give away his position. But if there were any Brownies that he saw carrying heavy arms, he-

 **Bam.**

Would fire. As he just did, one of them going down, dropping the RPG he'd been carrying. Some of his companions lingered in place. One of them reached for-

 **Bam.**

And fell, clutching his wound. He didn't try to kill them. There was no need to kill them – incapacitation was all that was required right now.

 **Bam.**

And he kept firing. All the while as the Gazelle moved down the road.

"That's enough," he said over the radio. "Move out."

"Affirmative."

There was no emotion in Spectre Two's voice. She simply obeyed, and the IFV increased in speed, heading for the base's exit. He-

 **Boom.**

Frowned, as a rocket hit the IFV. It came to a halt.

 _Shit._

He looked through the scope. It was on fire. The armour hadn't been breached, so chances were that Spectre Team was still alive. But it wasn't moving.

 _Get out,_ he thought to himself. _Get out._

The Browncoats were closing in. One of the team crawled out of the hatch and began firing.

"No," he whispered. "Don't do that."

It was Spectre Four. And he was gunned down.

"No," he whispered once more.

He saw a Browncoat climb onto the IFV. He saw the Browncoat go for something in his belt. Almost certainly a grenade. He went to pull the trigger…

…and hesitated.

Spectre Team was already dead. Spectre Team, if they weren't blown apart by a frag grenade, would be killed anyway. If he shot now, he'd most certainly give away his position. If he-

The grenade was down. He heard Spectres Two and Five curse. And cry.

 **Boom.**

And scream.

He watched in silence as the IFV burnt, its flames adding to the eerie glow that was consuming Fort Minerva. He watched as three bodies were dragged away from the IFV. He watched as the Independents kicked them. Two of them burnt beyond recognition. From here, even through the scope, he couldn't tell Two and Five away from each other.

He wanted to fire. He wanted to hate them. He wanted to do so many things. But he couldn't. Even now, he couldn't hate them. They had fought. They had won. Won this battle, at least. But looking at his chrono, he realized that it wouldn't matter. In 8 minutes and 44 seconds time, Operation Placid would begin. In 8 minutes and 42 seconds time, the Alliance's victory would be assured. Even if the Browncoats got their tanks moving, the amount of damage done coupled with the dents in their fuel supply would mean that any interference would be negligible.

It was over. Spectre Team had been wiped out, almost to the last man. But they'd done their job. And he was still alive.

So with 8 minutes and 37 seconds remaining, Dante Lodovico climbed down from the watchtower and headed for the hole that had been made in the chain-link fence.

The battle was over. The war was over.

And he'd fought on the winning side.

* * *

The Battle of Serenity Valley had ended seventeen days ago. Dante had been retrieved by _Wraith_ -class retrieval ship twelve days ago. All Independent resistance on Hera had ceased three days ago. And one hour ago, the armistice between the Union of Allied Planets and Independents had been signed. After six years, the war that had consumed the 'Verse had come to an end. After six years, the 'Verse had finally been united.

It had only cost its people a rough total of 105,140,000 lives. And while celebration swept through the Alliance fleet that was now spread out through the Georgia system, the corvette's crew was not among them.

Dante sat on his bed, listening to the hum of the ship's engines as it maintained orbit around Hera. General Wilkins was on the planet's surface, having been shuttled down there to meet with representatives of the Alliance Parliament, to accept the surrender from the Independents. He'd already been debriefed. He'd given the account of what had happened at Fort Minerva. As it had turned out, the Fourteenth Tank Brigade had never deployed. As soon as Operation Placid had begun, Independent Command had sued for peace, faced with such overwhelming air power, to the extent that they hadn't even sent their own birds into the air. The Battle of Serenity Valley had ended in a conflagration of fire followed by a whimper.

 _Sloth,_ Dante thought to himself, reflecting on the Independents' actions. _Or cowardice?_

Or maybe acceptance that they'd lost, and that throwing more lives away would accomplish nothing. Death was death, after all. As he'd been reminded of only recently in the Cortex message he'd received.

 **To Mr Dante Lodovico,**

He winced. It felt so informal now, to call him by name in a communique without using his rank. But he'd kept reading anyway. And felt something very different.

 **We regret to inform you that your father, Virgil Lodovico, passed away yesterday due to a heart attack. While he was able to contact us, he was found unconscious in his house, and our para-medics were unable to revive him.**

 **As we are aware of your current stationing within the Alliance military, we are willing to hold the body indefinitely. However, we would like to request that you be in contact with us as soon as possible, so that we may discuss your intentions for its treatment. If you are unable to return to Londinium within a reasonable timeframe, we are willing to pursue other avenues of contact for memorial services.**

 **Heartfelt condolences for your loss.**

 **With regards,**

 **Dr Ethelda Mascot, head of St Ekaterina Hospital**

The message had been beamed and re-routed, so in reality, Virgil Lodovico had actually died four days ago. But the date didn't matter. His father was dead. And he wasn't sure how to feel about that. Virgil Lodovico had been a fat, disgusting slob that had never done anything worthwhile, let alone said anything. For all his lectures about God and the sins of Man, he'd been quite willing to sin himself. Sloth, being the most egregious.

But still, he had been his father. And he remembered reading a book once that said something about loving thy father and mother. A book his parents had read to him long before he could read it himself.

 _Are you with Mother now, Father?_ he wondered, lying down on his bed. He fiddled with two pairs of dog tags. One, his own, the other belonging to a man who was dead. He didn't know why he'd taken them. It had been one of those strange things humans did in battle. The mind's way of coping with the carnage, or some such. He wasn't a shrink. And it didn't matter anyway.

 _Doesn't it?_

He thought of B. Sardinian, wondering whether there was a Mrs Sardinian, or anyone else with the name of "Sardinian" who was missing him. He wondered about Virgil Lodovico, whether he'd meet B. Sardinian in a supposed afterlife, whether they'd meet God, or return to the Tao, or something else. And whether Beatrice Lodovico would be there for any of them.

"Hello Lieutenant."

He looked up, sitting on the bed rather than lying on it. The door to his quarters had been opened.

"I heard about your father," the visitor said. "I'm sorry, for what it's worth. Though your psych profile indicates that you may not want or need condolences."

And Dante stared, all thoughts of Virgil Lodovico cast to the back of his mind. He went to get to his feet.

"Sit, please."

He didn't. He remained standing. And spoke.

"Sergeant Riggs."

The man smiled. "Riggs," he mused. "Yes…I did call myself once." The smile faded. "But names are irrelevant." He began walking around the room, as if the quarters were the greatest discovery in the history of mankind. "Sparse. Utilitarian. Very nice, Lieutenant."

"Why are you here Riggs?" Dante asked. "And where's your uniform?"

Riggs stopped walking, allowing Dante to study him. The same plain face. The same brown eyes, the same brown hair, the same…everything. Only two things had changed from Sturges, and one of them was his tone. His now blank, emotionless tone, far removed from the fire one would expect from a sergeant leading men and women into battle. And secondly, his uniform. Officers in the Alliance Navy wore standard blue, but this was pure black. Like armour actually, though far sleeker than standard body armour – even more so than the advanced body armour SAS soldiers wore. It reminded Dante of something out of both an old warrior culture, and science fiction. Advanced, yet still human.

"Four years ago, we met on Sturges. And now…" Riggs trailed off, as if remembering bygone, better times. He met Dante's gaze. "Listen to me Lodovico. Whatever happens after I leave this room, I'm going to make something clear – we never met. You may tell anyone you want about a Sergeant Riggs you served with in the Twenty-ninth Planetary Assault Division. But this conversation will never exist, and you will never claim otherwise. Am I clear?"

"Yes," said Dante softly.

"Good." He took a seat in Dante's desk chair, and gestured for the lieutenant to do likewise. Slowly, Dante came to sit down on his bed. And just sat there as Riggs remained seated, slowly moving the chair from side to side. Running his fingers over its side bars, as if it were a throne.

"Do you believe in God, Lodovico?" Riggs asked eventually.

"What?"

"It's a simple question." He leant back. "Our psych profile on you is a bit sketchy. Christian father and mother, good church boy…only by all indications you haven't professed much of a belief in him over the last few years. Not since Sturges, actually."

"Does it matter?"

"Just answer the question."

Dante took a breath, before obliging. "No," he said.

"Why?"

 _Because God took my mother, allowed this war to happen, and even decided to take my father away. And that was after Sturges._

"I'm waiting."

"Because I don't believe humanity needs a god to better itself," Dante said. "Or function. Or do anything. And that if there is a god that watches over everything, he hasn't done much to make himself visible."

"Some would argue that's the nature of faith."

"Is that why you're here?" Dante asked sharply. "To discuss religion?"

"No, Lieutenant Lodovico, I'm here to discuss you." Riggs leant back in the chair. "And the fact that in both occasions I've met you, you've lost your team."

"What?"

"Sturges," Riggs said. "Under your command, Privates Nakia, Hammadi, Burkina, and Kanaw were killed."

"I couldn't have saved them," Dante protested.

"And two weeks ago, you got Siri Gardinia, Jean Lacretelle, Bronner Cuesta, and Oliver Law killed, as part of an orbital insertion."

Dante frowned – the names of Spectres Two, Three, Four, and Five respectively. Names that should have been confidential to most people. Names that he'd long since learned not to associate them with. Names that he'd never hear again. Names that gave him a flicker of regret.

"Bit of a theme going for you, isn't it? Losing everyone around you while you survive?"

But he was beginning to suspect that the man who called himself Riggs wasn't "most people."

"Who are you?" Dante whispered.

Or even "some people."

Riggs ignored him.

"Why are you talking to me?" he asked. "I was debriefed by General Wilkins personally. He found no fault in my report."

"Indeed," Riggs said. "And quite right not to do so. By all accounts, by keeping the Independents in place, you're projected to have saved over four-hundred lives." He smiled. "Is that a good trade, Lodovico? Four lives for four-hundred?"

"Of course."

"Would you do it again?"

"If I had to." Dante frowned. "But why? The war's over. It-"

"Don't," Riggs said. "Don't go there."

The sergeant Dante once knew got to his feet. He began pacing around again. And most certainly was not pretending to be interested in the room.

"Lodovico, this war is over, but if you think that means we've achieved peace, then I've underestimated you." He continued pacing. "In theory, the Alliance now controls all of the 'Verse. In practice, nothing's changed. We don't have the manpower or political will to police the Outer Planets, and there's just as many subversive elements within the Core." He looked at Dante. "Men like me, Lodovico, we keep those elements in check. We man the walls of paradise. Men like me work in the shadows, doing what has to be done. The things that would make lesser men ill. That would make lesser men question. The things that lesser men must never know of."

"Like Sturges," Dante murmured.

"Like Sturges," Riggs said. "And not unlike your little drop. Something that had to be done, even though General Wilkins knew there was a remote chance of you ever coming back alive. The thing you did without hesitation."

He stopped moving. He put his hands together. And met Dante's eyes.

"Dante, you're an SAS member," he said. "That's an impressive accomplishment in itself. What I'm asking you to do is to go one step forward. To be in the same position as me."

"And that is?" Dante asked.

"An Operative," Riggs said. "Officially, I don't exist. I don't have a rank, or real name, or family connections. I'm a ghost. I can go anywhere, do anything, kill anyone. I could have General Wilkins killed this very instant, take command of this ship and order it to be flown across the galaxy. I could order every ship in the Georgia system to muster at Hera and bomb it to the stone age."

"And that's what you want me to be," Dante said. "An Operative."

"Yes," said Riggs, and he sat down again. "Lodovico, you survived Sturges. Two years ago you were inducted into the SAS, and one year ago, you were given command of your own team. You survived a suicide mission, you survived this war. Now I'm asking you to keep fighting, in a manner only men like us can. Men who can make the hard choices. Who can do the things no-one else can. To be both angel and demon, so that Man may live in paradise, and never know of the depths of Hell we must enter in order to keep serpents out." He leant forward, and Dante could swear he was begging him, even if not in words. "Dante, you said earlier that you didn't believe in God. So let me ask you – what do you believe in? What do you want to accomplish? And what would you be willing to do to accomplish it?"

And Dante remained silent. He thought of his father. He thought of Sturges. Of the moment when his faith had changed. When he realized that if God was in Heaven, not all was right on Earth all the same. Or anywhere else. When he had told himself what he believed in back then. What he still believed in.

"I believe in Man," he said. He thought of his father. The type of man he could never believe in. "I believe in a world without sin, and that Man can make that happen."

"Are you willing to do what is necessary for that?" Riggs asked.

"Yes," he said.

"And are you willing to put everything from your past behind you? To be a ghost? To live a half-life, so that others may live theirs to the fullest? To even cast aside your own name?"

Dante paused. For a moment, he wanted to say "no." That the war was over. That he had to go back home. That he'd fought for half a decade, and shouldn't have to fight anymore. For one, long, eternal moment…he wanted to just leave.

"Yes I am."

But only for a moment.

"Good," said Riggs, standing up and extending his hand. "I have a ship waiting. We have a long flight ahead of us. And you, Dante…well, your trip is only just beginning."

Dante took his hand.

And shook it.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So, Battle of Serenity Valley. The initial idea was to have Dante basically 'rally the men' (hence the sloth angle), but it didn't seem right. Yes, the Alliance was the attacking side in the valley, but Wilkes aside, the Alliance won simply by having far more firepower and its side. Or at least, that's the implication within the pilot episode. It's part of why General Wilkins always bothered me conceptually per the RPG lore - it's hardly a retcon or anything, but IMO, the idea of the Alliance winning through brute strength than tactics feels more pertinent in this case, at least in regards to Mal's character. The knowledge that you could have never won by virtue of the fact that you're so hopelessly outgunned._

 _It also shot down the second idea I had for this story, to make the SAS team take out the Independents' air support, explaining why they never showed up. However, I didn't like this idea either per the above reasons - the idea that the Independents knew that even if they launched their aircraft, they'd still lose. While planning this chapter, I looked up British paratrooper operations in Greece and Italy during WWII how they took out Nazi airfields prior to the invasion, hence the airfield idea. In this case, in the final version, admittedly took some inspiration from_ Band of Brothers _as well._

 _So, yeah, eventually got this chapter done in the present form. Hopefully it works._


	4. Envy

_Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, and now that, and changes name as it changes direction._

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Chapter 3: Envy**

 _Sentinel_ reminded Dante of a skyplex.

He'd seen skyplexes before – mainly in books and holos, but also when he's shipped off from Londinium. Skyplexes were located above planets, a waystation situated above a planet or moon, similar to a skyhook or space elevator. The difference was that skyplexes weren't tethered to the surface, and were more a port of call for starships, acting as a transfer point. Designs varied, but they all followed the same general mushroom-like structure, its rim rotating as a means of providing artificial gravity. A bit antiquated, considering that gravity manipulation went as far back as the 21st century, but almost as effective as any grav drive. And cheaper to maintain as well.

Seeing _Sentinel_ , Dante saw all the same technological and functional markers of a skyplex. Only thing was, it wasn't in orbit of a world. In fact, there wasn't any world within sight. Certainly none within range of the shuttle that was heading towards one of its umbilicals.

"Delta-eleven, requesting clearance," the shuttle's pilot said.

"Delta-eleven, we have you on LIDAR," came a voice. "Please submit clearance codes."

"Transmitting."

Dante stood in place, watching _Sentinel_ come into view through the shuttle's cockpit. He glanced at Riggs – or rather, the man who let Dante call him Riggs, the former SAS member reminded himself. Either way, the man's face was unreadable.

"Codes accepted. Proceed to umbilical two."

"Roger that. Delta-eleven out."

The shuttle continued through space, _Sentinel_ coming ever closer, leaving their mothership behind them. After Hera, Riggs had taken Dante onto the IAV _Wu Cheng'en_ , a _Xuanzang_ -class transport ship that had ferried them across the 'Verse. Away from the Border, past the Core, all the way to the depths of space that no man was meant to tread. Or something. He glanced at Riggs, reflecting that no such joke had been made.

"Nice place," Dante murmured

So of course, it was up to him to set the tone.

"Out here, in the airless void," Dante continued. "I'd have thought the Operative training facility would have been on Londinium, or Shinnon."

Riggs remained silent, though a slight smirk had formed on his features.

"I mean, obviously that isn't true," Dante continued. "But-"

"You scared, Lodovico?" Riggs interrupted.

"What?"

He glanced at him, the smirk now indeed a smirk, and at risk of becoming a smile. "Are you scared?" Riggs repeated.

"No," he answered truthfully. "Just…wary."

And the smirk did indeed become a smile. And Dante frowned.

"Good," Riggs said. "Because you should be."

"Why?"

"Because I was when I first came here."

The frown disappeared. And Dante returned his gaze to the space station. It began to disappear from his field of vision as the shuttle did a 90 degree turn, ready to connect its port hatch with one of the station's umbilicals.

"Lodovico, you're looking at Space Station Sentinel," Riggs said, not taking his eye off the cockpit's plexiglas, even as the station was removed from view. "Only the highest ranking administrative and military officials know this place exists, and even fewer of them know its location. You're looking at one of the most secret installations that exists in the 'Verse."

"And all the way out here," Dante murmured. "Out in this…nothing."

Riggs sighed. "It's called _Sentinel_ , Lodovico. Why do you think that is?"

"Because someone wanted a fancy name?"

"Funny," Riggs murmured. "But no. It's called that because it trains men like me, and hopefully, you. Sentinels – that's what Operatives are. That, and its position is a watchtower for this region of space. Anyone trying to reach the Core from this side. Rebels, pirates…heck, even aliens."

"Aliens," Dante blurted out. "You're joking, right?"

The look on Riggs's face told him he wasn't.

Aliens, Dante reflected. Somewhere, in some vault, on some base, there existed protocols for the event of alien invasion. Heck, the Alliance had placed _Sentinel_ out here in the first place, going beyond any level of secrecy he'd seen in SAS. Why not aliens as well? If men like Riggs existed, if someone had trusted individuals like Riggs with the authority to command entire fleets without even possessing an official rank, then it wasn't surprising that there were people in the Alliance who considered alien invasion a distinct possibility.

The shuttle connected with the umbilical. The pilot, without a word or even a glance, got out of his chair and headed for the airlock. Riggs, however, gave Dante a glance. But given the gleam in the man's eye, he felt he could do without it.

"Well then," Riggs asked. "Shall we?"

Dante nodded.

* * *

When Dante entered _Sentinel_ alongside Riggs, passing through umbilical 2's airlock, he was taken aback as to how few people there were – two. Neither of them saluted, and nor did Riggs. They just stood there. A man and a woman. The man wearing the same black body armour that Riggs did, a pistol holstered on the right, a stun baton on the right. The woman wearing the same all-black uniform bar the armour and weapons, but was instead equipped with a data pad. Amongst all the black, currently wearing his light blue dress uniform, Dante felt out of place.

"No salute?" the man asked.

He immediately snapped to attention. And the man scowled.

"Put that hand down you little ben tian sheng de yi dui rou," the man snapped. "Do you think salutes mean a damn around here?"

Dante dropped the hand, meeting his gaze. Grey eyes, no hair, no features bar a scar that ran across the right side of his face, running from his ear to his scalp. Everything about him screamed "veteran" and "don't mess with me."

The man looked at Riggs. "You sure about this?"

"Course I am," Riggs answered.

Dante let the conversation play out – he'd heard this before. He'd heard it when he was assigned to Corporal Adolphe, he'd heard it when he'd been assigned to SAS, and it didn't surprise him at all that he was hearing it now. Instead, he let his gaze drift to the woman. The woman who was shorter than he was, dark skinned, and with black hair done in braids, some of them falling around her chocolate-brown eyes. She smiled at him.

And he smiled back, before he reined it in. He'd been around women before. Spectre Two had been a woman. Adolphe had been a woman. His drill instructor back on Balkerne had been a woman. He'd never let that be an issue before. And now, out here, he wasn't going to let that change.

But still…she was beautiful.

"Well then," Riggs said, interrupting Dante's thoughts. "I'll be off."

Dante glanced at him as he headed down the umbilical. For a moment, he felt like a school child, when his mother had left him on his first day. There was no reason for Riggs to remain, he reminded himself. Or at least, there was no obligation for him to. And he certainly wasn't in the position of Riggs being a surrogate parent. After all, Vergil Lodovico was long dead. And the official story was that his son was missing in action.

He returned his gaze to the man in front of him, mental discipline keeping him from letting his gaze stray to his companion. He looked up at him. The man looked down. He wondered what the man's name was. And whether he'd even learn it.

"What's your name?" the man answered.

"Lodovico, Dante," he replied. "Formerly-"

"No."

Dante stopped talking.

"Dante Lodovico died on Hera," he said. "Your name is whatever I say it is. And right now, your name is Puke." He smirked. "Does that bother you, Puke?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I've been called worse," Dante said. "And right now I don't give a damn what you call me."

The man slowly smiled. "Very good," he said.

An eerie silence descended upon the trio, broken only by the hum of the shuttle leaving. Dante wondered about the station's supplies, how often they came, what level of contact was allowed, if any. He-

"Something bothering you, Puke?" the man asked.

He kept silent.

"Ask me now, or not at all," he said.

"I…I was wondering how many people this station has," Dante said.

The man remained impassive.

"I mean, it's like a skyplex," Dante continued. "Only you two (he again kept himself from meeting the woman's eyes) are the only people I've seen."

"Does that bother you?" the man asked.

"No. But I'd like to know why."

Another bout of silence descended. And this time, there was no shuttle to break it.

"This is _Sentinel_ ," the man said eventually. "Your friend has no doubt told you why it's called that, that you're either going to be a sentinel, or not. And the reason why there aren't many people is threefold." He held up a hand – a very, _very_ large hand, that Dante swore could have grabbed his entire head if the man wanted. "One, supplies – we're deep in the Black, so it saves our masters time and credits. Two (he counted on his fingers as he went), security – less people here the better. And three…" He smiled, before continuing, "only one Operative is trained on this base at a time."

Dante's eyes widened.

"Oh yes," the man said. "One at a time. No set period. So whether you win, lose, or die, you're here until I say so." He cast his long arms around. "Welcome to your new world Puke. Enjoy your stay."

"I intend to," Dante said firmly. He straightened his back. He recalled what Riggs had told him on Hera. About being a protector. Of being the best of the best. And how, even with Riggs gone, he still wanted that. "And I'm ready to begin."

"Good," the man said. "Because training begins now."

The man drew out his pistol and fired.

* * *

Dante had lost count as to how long he'd been in the cell.

Its walls were a sterile shade of white, its floors a checkerboard of grey and black. Illumination came from lights mounted along the edge of its roof. He hadn't tried to count the days he'd been in here – there was no way of marking the time. His internal clock was messed up due to the constant illumination. His eyes stung. His stomach growled. His throat was as dry as one of the deserts of Bellerophon. But unlike the planet in question, there was no way of quickly getting to water.

He lay against the wall, thumbing his fingers against it. Keeping his eyes closed. Reflecting that maybe the analogy wasn't so apt. Bellerophon was divided between desert and ocean water. And salt…proverbial salt was in his proverbial wound. Even now he could feel where that bastard had shot him. It had been a dart gun – he recognised the type of imprint in his stomach, and that he hadn't bled to death was evidence enough that the round hadn't been lethal. But being shot in the gut at point blank range, lethal or otherwise…it still hurt.

 _Bastard._

Everything hurt, for that matter. He squinted his eyes, wishing the brightness would go away. His eyes hurt. His stomach hurt. His throat hurt. And his pride, what was left of it, hurt. He'd come here, assured that he'd be the best of the best. Now…now it was as if he'd been left to die. And maybe he had. Maybe…maybe…

 _Did I mess up?_

He slowly got to his feet, looking at the layout of the room – 5 by 5, with nothing else. Four walls, the only exit being a lone door with a plexiglas window. As he'd done more times than he could count, he walked up to it. Peered out into the grey, but just as sterile corridor outside. He'd woken up in this cell after being shot, and theoretically, he could have been transferred to another station entirely.

 _Or I'm actually dead._

Well, if it was Hell, it wasn't doing much on the fire and brimstone front. And if it was Hell, he supposed he'd have seen his father by now.

 _God I'm thirsty._

But being dead, under the premise that he was still alive, was getting to be more and more of a possibility. He'd done a survival course as part of training for the SAS, he knew how important water was for the body. At least here he hadn't lost too much of it, even though he'd had to let himself go in the corner once or twice. The urine had no smell though, the cell having an anti-septic system of some sort. This room, that was his cell. And perhaps his coffin.

 _Or is it?_

He put a hand to his chin. There had to be a way out of here. There just had to be. If they wanted him dead, they could have killed him. And wanting him dead, he could understand – he knew of the station's existence, and killing him would remove any chance of leaks. A bit of an extreme rationale, but still explainable. But leaving him to starve to death? No. There had to be a way.

 _But how?_

There wasn't any way through the door, he'd already tried kicking it down in desperation. The plexiglas was just as impenetrable. He'd already gone up against the walls, looking for any kind of hidden switch, but had no luck. He could try again, but looking at the walls, he wondered. Suppose this was a test, somehow. Feeling around the walls for an exit…it was too easy. And that left only the floor.

 _Great._

The floor. Black and grey squares in perfect formation, all of them smaller than his hand, meaning that there was a hell of a lot of them. There was nothing unusual about it. It was no different from the bathroom he'd used on Londinium, when he'd lived in his old house. Course the colours were a bit different but that was it. Black, grey, black, grey, grey-

 _What?_

He headed over to the right wall. The tiles had gone in the usual order – black, grey, black, grey. But at the end, with the grey tile, there was another one. Half of one. As if it went under the wall, or was part of something else.

 _Could it be?_

He crouched down and moved his hand across the tile, right up to the wall. He felt nothing. Or at least he did until the tile rotated, revealing some kind of device attached to its underside.

 _Huh._

He picked it up – it looked like a data chip. But pulling off its top where the data port would have been, there was instead a red button. A red button that didn't have any kind of "press this to blow up the world" sign on it, but a red button all the same.

So on instinct, he pressed it. And just as quickly, the door to the cell hissed open.

"Yes!"

He composed himself as quickly as he could – he'd been alone for God knew how long, and he had indeed talked to himself. Survival training had actually encouraged it in the event of solitary confinement as a way to keep the mind focused. But the game had changed. And opening the door was only the first step.

 _So what now?_

He slowly made his way up to the entrance. Just as slowly, he glanced down both sides of the corridor – neither passage gave any indication of where on the station (assuming this _was_ the same station) this area was located. Both ways looked exactly the same – about ten metres each way, with each turning to the right/left.

 _When in doubt, turn left._

So he did so. Moving swiftly and silently down the corridor, he headed for what he hoped was freedom.

And hopefully answers.

* * *

The corridors didn't do much to help Dante's navigation, but he was able to keep his sense of direction all the same. He was progressing in rings, either heading deeper into the station, or towards its circumference.

 _Which is better though?_

He wasn't sure. Assuming that Riggs's counterparts didn't want him dead, he could only assume that this was a test of some kind. But was he meant to escape, or confront an enemy? If this were the SAS, he would have gone with the former – evasion was sometimes the better part of valour, and the Alliance didn't want its men and women dying needlessly. But on the other hand, this wasn't the SAS. This was something else. It-

He stopped. He'd arrived back where he'd first arrived with Riggs. He could see the airlock that led to the umbilical. And the vacuum of space that lay beyond.

 _Ta ma duh._

Escape wasn't coming from here. And even then, he wasn't sure if he was meant to escape at all. But if so, then-

 **Click.**

He dived to the side, coming to rest beside some crates. The landing was rough. But far better than taking a bullet to the back. Because indeed, a bullet whizzed past. And it was only from hearing the sound of a pistol's safety lock being taken off that he had any warning at all.

"Not bad," came a voice.

He recognised the voice as well – it was from the man that had greeted him at the start. The man who had shot him.

"Using live rounds?" Dante called out.

The gun fired again.

"That wasn't an answer."

A third shot didn't come. He peaked around the crate, towards where he'd walked out from. For a brief second he saw the man, indeed pointing a pistol at him. A 9mm, standard issue Alliance service pistol, with eighteen rounds per magazine. Or right now, fifteen.

 **Bam.**

He ducked back into cover. Make that fourteen, he reflected.

"You can give up you know," the man called out. "There's no shame in that. You did escape from the cell after all."

"So you know about that?"

"You're out here, aren't you?" the man asked. Dante glanced aside – the man wasn't going to hit him from where he was standing. Then again, he couldn't escape either. It was a stalemate, unless the man entered the room for a better shot. And then at least, he had a chance of taking him out.

"So then," Dante called out, "do you shoot everyone who comes onto this station?"

"Only initiates. The good ones are meant to grab the gun and disarm me. The good ones are meant to be in actual training by this stage."

"And the bad ones?"

"They're sent home after failing to escape the cell. With non-disclosure and all that."

"So then?" Dante asked. "Where do I fit?"

The man said nothing. He only fired.

And Dante was hit.

He yelled as the bullet tore into his stomach. It was a blank – he could tell that much by the lack of blood. But it was the angle – the man had fired at an adjacent wall, and ricocheted the round off into him.

 _Son of a-_

And then he was there, standing before him, gun in his hand. Dante tried to grab it. And failed, the man pistol whipping him on the neck. He swore. And fell silent as he felt the gun against his temple.

"By all rights you should be dead," the man said. "Twice."

"How…how…"

"How? Well, first I shot you a week ago. And I could shoot you just now. Besides, since you have a simulated stomach wound, you're pretty much screwed anyway."

The man kicked him against the wall. Dante wheezed – the boot had contacted in the same place the blank had. But in a way, he welcomed it. It was a chance to just lean back and face the bastard who'd done this. A chance to meet the man who'd bested him. A man that he couldn't help but admire in a way.

"So what now?" Dante asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I failed," he rasped. His stomach hurt, his throat was dry, and his pride was going out the airlock. "Like I said, what now?"

The man holstered his pistol. "Do you think you failed?" he asked.

"You bested me," he said. "Twice."

"And if I hadn't?"

Dante remained silent. The man frowned.

"I could let you go," he said. "We only train one Operative at a time here, after all. And there are other opportunities in the 'Verse. I could-"

Dante kicked him in his manhood. He cursed, recoiling. And it was all the time Dante needed to spring up, grab his pistol, and push him to the ground. Pointing it down at him.

"Stomach wound or not," he said, "I don't think you'd walk away from this either."

The man smirked. "I can see why Patrick vouched for you." He got to his feet. "And I can see why you're still alive."

Dante kept the pistol pointed at him. "Usually I kill people by now."

"So I've heard." He paused, before saying, "how'd you like to kill some more?"

"I wouldn't. But I'm willing to, if that's what it takes."

"Trust me Lodovico, it will. But you can also trust me when I say that the people you kill will prevent far more deaths occurring." He held out a hand. "Now give me the gun."

Dante paused, before obliging. It could have been another test. But he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. If only because he'd called him "Lodovico," and not "Puke."

"Come on," he said. "We'll get you something to drink."

Dante began to follow. But he stopped. The man looked round at him.

"Patrick," he asked. "Who's Patrick?"

"That would be Riggs," the man said. "Or rather, the man you know as Riggs."

"And is that his real name?"

"Course it isn't."

"And do you know what it is?"

"I do," he replied. "I was the one who trained him. I've trained almost every Operative since this branch of the Alliance military was established." His gaze narrowed. "Just like you, Lodovico. I'm going to train you until you're either dead, or you're one of us. And when you'll never be allowed to call yourself Dante Lodovico again."

Dante remained silent.

"Does it bother you?"

"No," he murmured. He met his gaze. "It doesn't."

What surprised him was that it wasn't a lie. And why he asked, "what can I call you?"

"Master," he answered. "Or mentor. Or whatever else you want. Just like I'll call you what I want for the next few years."

Dante's eyes widened. "Years? Riggs said nothing about years."

"I just did." His mentor smiled. "So we best get started."

Years. His superior would hold his life in his hands for years. He could be as brutal as he wanted, and likely answer to no-one.

He hated him.

And envied him.

* * *

Dante's swordsmaster was a man named Yu Samar. He looked like something out of feudal Japan, he acted like something out of feudal Japan, and when Dante was handed a sword for the first time, he could have sworn he was _in_ feudal Japan.

Difference was, the swords of Earth-That-Was didn't deliver electric shocks every time they made contact.

The swords used straight blades of high carbon, tempered steel, about as long as his arm from hilt to tip. Standard issue for all Operatives, apparently. Day after day, Dante continued to train with him. Day after day, he was returned to his quarters, bruised and bleeding. Only alive due to the blunt edges.

"Again," Samar would say, every time he struck him down.

It went on and on. His mentor, as Dante called him, had explained that firearms training was unnecessary for now. Anyone could shoot straight. He'd been proven to be able to do so during the Unification War, and kill quite effectively. Dante's aim didn't need work. Close combat however, did. Once, he had trained in combat knives, but swords, they were something else. Weapons that he had no experience in.

"Again," Samar would say.

So he went on.

"Again."

And on.

"Again."

And on.

It was hell. His only respite was when he took his meals – fifteen minutes breakfast, ten minutes lunch. No dinner. He was simply left to his own devices as of 2200 hours, as long as he was ready at 0600 hours the next day. The skyplex used a 24 hour standard. And it was in the first week that he made a friend.

"You alright?" she asked.

He looked up from the noodles he'd been given for his lunch. It was her. The woman he'd seen when he'd first arrived.

"Hmm?"

"Hanging in there?" she asked, taking a seat opposite him in the station's mess room (not hall, he noticed, _room_ , and even that was being generous). "I mean, Samar's hard on recruits at the best of times and-"

"I'm fine," he lied.

She smiled. And he couldn't help it, he smiled back. Her lips, her eyes…she was gorgeous. If only he knew her-"

"My name's Miranda, by the way," she said. "I'm a systems specialist."

"And you're stationed here?" Dante asked.

 _Stupid question, of course she is._

"Yeah," she said. "Get some leave, but my existence is about as classified as yours."

"Oh," he said. He couldn't help but keep smiling. The idea that both of them were "classified." "So, who else is on the skyplex?"

"A few people, like me," she said. She leant forward. "Course it's people like Samar that run the show here. Best of the best and all that."

"Best of the best," he mused. He pushed the noodles aside, sighing. "I wish-"

"Don't worry," Miranda said. "You'll do fine. Samar kicks everyone's arse when they first arrive."

Dante raised an eyebrow – "how long have you been here?"

"That's classified," she said, repeating that bloody word. But she still smiled. "But long enough to know a winner when I see one."

Dante grinned, feeling like a child again. Back on Londinium. In a different life. A normal life, one that so many people were living. Unaware of his existence, or that of _Sentinel_.

He kind of envied them.

* * *

"Again," Samar said.

It was always the same. No matter what he did, Samar parried his blows. No matter how fast he swung his sword, the swordmaster broke through his defences. Every single time, he was struck eventually. Like now, as he fell to the ground, his chest aching from what would have been a lethal blow had he not been wearing insulating armour, not to mention the bluntness of the swords.

"Again," Samar said.

He lay there on his knees, trying to fight the pain.

"Again," Samar said.

"Fuck. You."

He couldn't help it. He hated him. He hated being here, he hated that he couldn't win, he hated that for all of Riggs's…no, _Patrick_ 's talk of making a difference, he wasn't doing that at all.

"Again," Samar said.

"I said fuck you!"

And he hated Samar most of all.

Especially when the swordmaster kicked him in his jaw, breaking it.

* * *

"You alright?" Miranda asked.

He couldn't talk – he was in the skyplex's infirmary. As harsh as the training was, he was temporarily excused from fencing lessons. Instead he was given a data pad with the expectation of plotting fleet movements in various simulations, ranging from retrieval to naval combat. An Operative could be called upon to command any number of vessels at any given moment. And it was expected that such an operative have an understanding of naval strategy, even if they were entitled to ask for advice from more experienced commanders. And just as entitled to ignore it.

"Well, don't worry," she said. "You'll be out by next week. Samar's pacing around all day now." She giggled. "I think he likes you."

Dante wanted to tell Samar to shove it. His feelings weren't alleviated when his flagship went down in flames. He tossed the pad down to the end of his bed.

"I mean, well, he won't admit it, but you're doing good," she said. "Better than most. Course there was Kalista, but…" Her smile faded. "Well, like I said, hang in there."

Dante wouldn't have said anything even if he could have talked. Being told he was doing better than most – that meant nothing to him. People like Riggs/Patrick/whatever…what they were supposedly doing…that meant something to him.

He envied his old sergeant, for the life he led. He envied Miranda, for the life she was spared from. He envied everyone in the 'Verse, for not having to go through with this.

"Anyway," she said. She kissed him on the forehead. "I'll see you."

Alright, Dante reflected, watching her leave, feeling something warm spread through his chest. Maybe he didn't envy them that much.

* * *

"Again," Samar said.

Dante remained silent. His jaw still hurt, but even if it hadn't, he wouldn't have had anything to say anyway. Nothing he said made him feel better, insulting Samar had no effect, and in the event of really duelling with swords, what use would words be?

"Again," the swordmaster said.

Dante swung his sword. Samar didn't even move, simply bringing his own blade upwards with such force that Dante's weapon was knocked out of his hands. And before his brain could even process that fact, he was kicked to the ground with Samar's boot.

"You are distracted," his master said.

Dante slowly got to his feet. 'You are distracted.' Well, that was a change from "again."

"You can do better than this."

He went to pick up his blade, bending down. He'd done better. Right. He couldn't even call that praise through faint damnation. Not to mention-

"Pay attention!"

And he felt a boot connect with his back, kicking him to the ground.

"Hwen dan," Dante murmured. He slowly got to his feet, expecting Samar to make physical contact again. And not caring in the slightest. So when he finally got to his feet, sword in hand, he was surprised to see that the swordmaster had done no such thing.

"You are bothered," Samar said.

And surprised to not hear the word "again" again. He shook his head – was that a double positive, or double negative?

"Yeah, I'm bothered," Dante said.

He thought he might as well go for it.

"I'm bothered because-"

"Because you feel you have made no progress, that swords have no relevance in the twenty-sixth century, and that you are wasting your time."

Dante remained silent.

"I have trained many," said Samar. "I was trained myself as an Operative. You are no different."

"And let me guess," Dante murmured. "This is the same speech you gave all of them."

"Yes."

"…oh."

An uneasy silence rose between the two men. Dante didn't doubt Samar's words. And even training one Operative at a time, that still didn't mean that there weren't more out there. More people like Riggs/Patrick, for instance.

But there was still Miranda. Sweet, beautiful Miranda, with those big brown eyes, those lips, that smile…God, that smile…she-

"Actually," Dante said suddenly. "I _would_ like to know why I'm training in the use of the sword."

Samar's gaze didn't change. "Go on."

"Well…" _Ah, screw it._ "It's useless. It's a waste of time. Name one way in which a sword is better than a gun."

"No ammunition."

"But firearms outrange swords, and-"

"Look around you," said Samar, inclining his head to the right wall. A featureless, sterile wall, that was the same as the three other walls of the room they were in. "What worth does range have here?"

"Well, yes, but…" He wanted to say that range did matter on the battlefield, but not all battles were fought at range. On Sturges and Hera, charging the Independents with a sword would have been useless. But in a place like this…

"But…no-one uses swords," Dante murmured. "They're-"

"Exactly," said Samar. "No-one uses swords. So no-one will be able to match you in close quarters."

Dante frowned. "I trained in CQC with the SAS. That's already a given."

"Indeed? Then why have I beaten you time after time?"

"Because you're using a sword." He smiled. "Go on then master. Throw it away. Let's see how good you are without your precious blade."

Samar shrugged and threw the sword aside. Dante did likewise. A second later, he got himself into a fighting stance.

A few seconds after that, he'd been pinned, and his arm had been broken.

* * *

"First the jaw, now the arm. Believe it or not Lodovico, we don't have an infinite supply of medicine here."

 _Medicine. Right. No painkillers this time I noticed you son of a-_

"Do you like failure, Lodovico? Do you want to leave?"

He didn't meet his master's gaze. He just lay in his bed as nano-probes healed his broken bones. Some of the finest medical technology in the 'Verse was being used on him, technology that wasn't even accessible to most Alliance soldiers. His superior had made it quite clear that he was in a privileged position.

 _Privileged my arse._

"One more day," the man said, not leaving the bedside, standing over it like he was Death himself, and the bed was his coffin. "One more chance against Samar, or it's over."

"Come on," Dante protested. "So he's a better swordsmaster. I'm good at-"

"You're good at being a soldier. You're good at thinking on your feet, at killing, at staying alive." He leered in, his scalp clean, his teeth cleaner. "And that's not enough."

Dante remained silent.

"Do you _want_ to be here, Lodovico? Do you believe in mankind? A world without sin? Better worlds?"

"That's a bit melodramatic, isn't it?"

"Your words," the man said, drawing away from the bedside as he did so. "Words spoken above Hera. Words recorded by Sergeant Riggs for your psychological record." He paused, before saying, "your words, not mine."

They had been, Dante reflected. But they'd been words spoken in the belief that he could actually accomplish them.

"One day," the man said, walking out of the room. "One last chance."

* * *

As Dante got his sword ready, he wondered whether Samar would say "again" at all. Whether he'd have more than one chance to strike a blow. The time for reflection quickly passed however as the swordsmaster went on the offensive – a series of vertical cuts that Dante easily parried.

 _He's not even trying._

Vertical cuts were some of the easiest blows to avoid. While they held great physical power, they could be parried either from below, or a swipe to the side. Or simply sidestepped. And even then, the power a vertical slice held wasn't that necessary – the human body was a frail thing. But even so, he kept up his guard. Parried some blows, giving ground. And stopped parrying as soon as he stepped to the side, sending his own sword forward in a thrust. Towards Samar's exposed side.

The swordmaster evaded the blow and brought his sword down, hitting Dante's with force. The vibrations ran through the blade, and he barely had enough strength to keep his grip on it.

"Drop your blade and lose," Samar said.

So the rules hadn't changed then – one of the swordsmen had to disarm the other. Dante began circling his foe, Samar in turn mimicking his movements. Waiting for him to strike.

 _Course you are. You don't have to worry about being kicked out into space._

Samar thrust forward and Dante stepped to the side. Samar withdrew his blade and the dance continued.

 _Come on,_ Dante reflected, desperately trying to find an opening. _Come on!_

He thrust his sword. Samar parried it. He began to wonder if the swordmaster was even trying.

 _For God's sake!_

God couldn't help him, he reminded himself. His only consolation was that he'd held his blade longer than he usually had. Samar had barely attacked him.

 _And if I strike…_

If he struck, Samar would parry the blow, and possibly disarm him. Samar was stronger, and months of training hadn't given him the edge.

Samar thrust. Dante dodged it.

 _But what about…_

He stopped. He took his left hand off his sword, holding it one-handed. Samar raised an eyebrow. And that was all the opportunity Dante needed to swing it.

Samar dodged, but Dante remained on the offensive. Samar thrust his blade, but he dodged in turn. On and on he swung his sword, driving Samar back. The eyebrow had long returned to normal, and if anything, Samar's eyes had narrowed. They narrowed even further as he parried Dante's blade. As he thrust his own sword forward. Dante stopped looking at them as he delivered a spinning kick, his boot making contact with Samar's head. The swordsmaster stumbled backwards. And fell as Dante did a flying kick into his chest.

 _Yes._

He quickly rose to his feet. He plunged his sword downwards to Samar's chest. He rolled aside, bringing his own leg against Dante's sword, knocking it out of his hands.

 _No!_

He'd lost. He'd been disarmed. He saw as Samar reached for his own blade. He grabbed the man by the head, slamming it against the floor. Buying enough time to grab Samar's sword, grab him by the throat, and hold the steel against it.

 _But I lost._

Yet still he held him there. The two men glaring at each other. It wasn't true hatred, Dante told himself. Samar had humiliated him, bruised him, broken him. But he wasn't an enemy. He had only been an adversary.

"You lost your blade," Samar said.

Dante remained silent. Not hating the man before him was starting to become difficult.

"On the other hand," his foe continued, "I'm in the position of you being able to slit my throat at a moment's notice."

Dante didn't respond. A few moments passed before Samar spoke again.

"Tell me," he said. "How did you beat me? Why now?"

"I don't understand."

"What did you do differently?" Samar asked firmly. "Why this time, of all times, did you win?"

Dante frowned. He couldn't say. Well, there was a difference but…

 _What the hell._

"I fought one-handed," he said. "I kicked as well."

"Exactly," said Samar. "You used agility. Instead of meeting me with strength, you used agility. Cunning. Brute force."

Dante wasn't sure what to say. Had he passed, or not?

"Keep this in mind, Lodovico. Strength of body is not needed. Your sword is your weapon. If you become an Operative, you will be able to wield any kind of weapon in the 'Verse. But if you face someone like me, you will not need strength. Strength of character, and agility, will carry the day."

"And if I don't get that opportunity?" Dante asked, trying to steady his heartbeat. "After all, I lost my sword."

"That you did," said Samar. He got to his feet, and Dante let him. "But you won today." He put a hand on his shoulder. "And you have won my respect."

* * *

"The celebration of Unification Day was met with protests in New Glasgow. Civil protection forces responded with tear gas. Colonel Kahin Lear of the Alliance naval garrison of Muir has commented that these dissidents represent a small but vocal minority, and that a year on from the end of the Unification War, peace and stability are finally returning to the outer reaches of the 'Verse."

Dante watched the flatscreen in the mess room, slowly picking his way through the noodles he'd been provided. He watched as rioters tore their way through New Glasgow, the capital city of the planet Muir. He watched as the image shifted to another world in the Rim, displaying the same unrest, the same da bian hua, the same discontent that had occurred before the Unification War. And how even in the Core, there were scenes that mirrored those in the Border and beyond. Not to the same scale, and far more civilized, yet even so, still there.

"Here with me now is sociologist Joachim Bajner, along with professor-"

Dante returned his gaze to the noodles. Right now they looked prettier than anything that was on the flatscreen. And noodles didn't yammer on about fey wu.

"Professor Bajner, in light of-"

He drowned the conversation out. He'd once heard of a man who'd found God in a bowl of soup. And that on Earth-That-Was, a man had discovered the secret of gravity when an apple fell in his bathtub. Or something. Staring at the broth before him, he wondered if there were any answers here.

He didn't count on it. So like the noodles, he let his feelings simmer.

 _One year._

Well, actually a few days short of the required 365, but he was happy with rounding it up. 365 days had passed since the end of the Unification War, of the cessation of hostilities between the Alliance and Independents, and of the dawn of a new era. A year, minus a few days, since he'd come to _Sentinel_. Months had passed since he had bested Samar, but the duels had continued. Despite his master's words about already knowing how to shoot, he'd also been given training with advanced ranged weaponry – reload times, marksmanship, even maintenance. And coupled with that were fleet tactics, going beyond the data pad, and entering a simulator, designed to simulate commanding a space battle as realistically as possible.

"If you want my opinion, the Alliance hasn't done nearly enough in reparation efforts in the Border Worlds. When you look at what's happening on Kerry for instance…"

He shoved some noodles in his mouth. Cunts, the lot of them. He'd fought. He'd killed. He'd seen people die. After all that had ended, he'd practically given up his life to ensure that nothing like this would happen again.

 _Bastards,_ he reflected to himself, taking a sip of water, looking up at the screen as Barjner and Professor not-Barjner debated the finer points of civilization. _Ni ta ma de, tain xia sou you de ren dou gai shi._

And yet, he envied them. The ability to live a life where such discussion was allowed. The life that allowed such luxuries. To not have to worry about what was happening, to not be affected by it, but to be seated in comfy chairs, in TV studios on comfy worlds. He might one day have to give his life for his people. And they would never know he did it.

Yes, he thought, finishing the noodles. He envied them.

"Want some company?"

He looked up, and not at the screen.

"Because it looks like you could use it."

He smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I could use it."

He wouldn't have minded being left alone. But seeing Miranda there, a glass of water in one hand…all of a sudden, he found himself appreciating the merits of company. Merits including someone who made him feel…something…strange…

"Same crap, huh?" she asked, gesturing towards the screen. The newscaster had since moved onto a two-way communication with the magistrate of Lilac, a moon in the same star system as Muir. "One year on, and we get this boscrap."

Dante knew what he felt for Miranda right now – admiration. Respect.

 _Yeah, that's it._

"Anyway," she said. "One year, eh?" She took a sip of the water. "If you ask me, you've got it."

"Got it?" Dante asked.

"Got it," she repeated. "As in, you'll get through. Most of the people who don't have 'it' are sent off by now."

"Yeah, well…" Dante smiled, taking a sip of his own water. "I'm not most people, am I?"

"No," Miranda said. "You're not."

A silence dwelled between them. Silence that not even Magistrate Slype's inane prattling could break. Silence that Dante desperately wanted to break himself.

"Listen," he said. "I mean…"

"Yes?"

"How…how'd you end up here?" he asked. It wasn't the most eloquent question, but he was desperate to say something, anything, that would keep her in the room with him. "I mean, I know you're a systems specialist, but-"

"There's your answer," Miranda said, smiling. "I'm a systems specialist. I help keep the station up and running. After all, it's a long way out from…" She trailed off before gesturing towards the newscaster, and by proxy the studio that was situated on Osiris. "Well, from there."

Dante remained silent.

"It's hard," Miranda said. "I mean, I can't complain, not after what you and the other operatives go through, but…" She pushed her water aside. "Well, it's lonely."

Dante's heartbeat picked up. He started feeling warm, and wanting a lot more water.

"And there's the whole classification thing," she said. "I mean, it's not like I don't exist but-"

"You do exist," Dante blurted out.

She looked at him.

"I mean, you must have friends," he said. "I mean, family?"

"Family…" She trailed off. And instantly Dante knew that he'd said the wrong thing. Something as wrong as wrong as could be.

"My family…aren't with me," she said softly.

"I…I'm sorry," Dante murmured.

He meant it, much to his surprise. He'd killed, he'd taken lives, he'd left people to die on both Hera and Sturges. But seeing Miranda before him…those gorgeous eyes…how tears came to those eyes, like diamonds in a dark sea…

"They were killed by the Independents," she said. "Bernadette, 2506, back when war broke out. They…" She paused, and Dante could see her throat trembling. "There was an explosion. A colony ship, they…" She trailed off. Dante could see that she was on the edge. And right now, he wanted to do nothing more than hug her. To tell her that it was over. That the war was over. That no-one would have to go through what she did again.

But he couldn't. Because this thing _could_ happen again. It was the entire reason he was here.

"Listen," Dante said. "I've got today off. Do you…want to…"

"Do what?" Miranda asked.

"I mean…well…there's windows, aren't there?" He rubbed his hair. His shaved, regulation-length, black hair. Hair that felt sweat from his palms run through it. "I mean…if you want…"

Miranda extended her right hand, putting it on his length. And as a result, his own right hand became _very_ sweaty.

"Yes," she said, smiling. Her eyes shining with both tears and something more, as the news moved on to the disappearance of the _Endeavour_ on its way to Blue Sun. "Yes. I'd like that a lot."

* * *

"You're doing good," said his mentor. "Very good."

Dante remained at attention, keeping his gaze impassive. The man seated at the desk behind a computer terminal said one thing. His tone and his lack of focus said another.

"You've been here for, what? Fifteen months?" he continued.

"Fourteen," Dante murmured.

His master remained silent. He continued looking at the terminal. Moving a hand to his chin.

"Sir, if I may-"

"Denon."

"What?"

"Not 'Sir,' Denon," the man repeated, the tone, gaze, and hand position not changing. "My name's Denon." He hit what looked like the "enter" key. "Figure we're on a first name basis by now."

"And is that your real name?"

"For the purposes of future communication, it is." He continued typing. "Course you can call me whatever you want I suppose."

Dante didn't say anything. If he said what was in his gut, he'd have mentioned that no, they weren't, that they'd barely seen each other over the fifteen, no, _fourteen_ months that he'd been on _Sentinel_ , and that over the course of those fourteen months, he hadn't given a second thought to what his superior's name might have been.

"Anyway," the man named Denon said. "We're graduating you. Provided you pass the final-"

"Graduated?" Dante blurted out.

"Yes, Puke, graduated," Denon said. He pressed another button on the keyboard, one that looked like "escape." He met Dante's gaze. "Is that a problem?"

"Um, no," Dante murmured. "It's just…well…"

"Is it Miranda?"

Now it was Dante's turn to look bothered.

"Yes, Puke, you're not fooling anyone," Denon said. He leant back in his chair. "This is a small space station, and there's few places to hide. And staring out an observation port, yammering on about how beautiful Earth was isn't keeping any secrets."

"What I do on my off-time isn't any of your business," Dante said.

"Actually, it is," Denon responded. He leant forward, resting his chin on his hands. Like a sleeping lion woken up by a mouse. "It's my business because I'm the person that, on a moment's notice, can send you back to Londinium."

Dante tried to keep his composure.

"Does she love you?"

And failed.

"Does she love you?" Denon repeated. He leant back in his chair. "Is it love, Lodovico? Because if it is, if you want to leave, I won't stop you. If you become a full-fledged Operative, that's another story, but-"

"No," Dante said.

"No?"

"No," he repeated.

"No, as in, you won't go?" Denon asked. "Or no, as in, you don't love her? That all that hand holding, kissing, and whispers don't mean anything?"

Dante remained silent. He couldn't answer. Couldn't answer because he didn't have an answer to give.

Miranda. Kind, caring, beautiful Miranda. He didn't know which adjective was the most important. He didn't know if it was her words, her eyes, or just her mere presence that made him distracted. That made him spur himself on. That gave him comfort at night. It was uncanny the kind of hold she had over him.

"Anyway," Denon said. "Like I said, we're graduating you."

"Despite Mi…what you've said?" Dante asked. "Despite you saying it would take years?"

Denon smirked…sort of. It looked like a smirk at first, but it turned into a frown. As if the man was amused for but a moment, but lost all joy the next.

 _Probably lost all sense of joy a long time ago._

"You want the truth, Lodovico?" he asked. "Is it that you're just that good? Or that we need to accelerate your training?"

Dante paused, before saying, "I'd like the truth." He took a breath. "No matter what."

"Very good," said Denon softly. He continued, "it's both. You are good, Lodovico. Not the best we've ever seen, but still good. So yes, despite your infatuation with Miss Atkinson, I'm confident in sending you out in the field."

"And yet…" Dante began.

Denon sighed, rubbing his eyes. "You've seen the news, Lodovico. Riots. Insurrection. Browncoats who forgot they lost the war." He let out a grunt. "Basically every little shit with a six-shooter wants to take a shot at the Alliance, and they're willing to do it from White Sun to the Rim. It's the kind of thing the Operatives were created to deal with."

"And you need more," Dante murmured.

"Dang ran, we need more," Denon said. "And we're going to get them. That, and the Alliance's psy…" He trailer off and looked at his computer, frowning. "Well, it doesn't matter. I'll let you know when your final test is to be held."

"A test?" Dante asked.

"A test," Denon repeated. He met Dante's gaze, his eyes tired, yet firm as well. "To see how committed you are to making a world without sin."

* * *

"Spectre here. In position."

He'd been given the call sign of "Spectre." Or rather, been allowed it. Spectre Team had been a group of five individuals that had taken part in the final battle of the Unification War. Five of those individuals were officially dead, and in four out of five of them, that was actually true.

"Report, Spectre."

"Hostages. Civvies, about ten of them. Five female, two female. Three children. And one of them Miranda Atkinson."

 _Miranda…_

But it made no difference, he told himself. Dante Lodovico was dead. He was an operative now. He would never be called Dante Lodovico again. He'd be called whatever he wanted to be called. Would be whoever he wanted to be. And do whatever was ordered of him.

"Threat assessment?"

"High. Radiation levels are peaking."

Like what he'd been ordered to do right now.

When he'd departed _Sentinel_ , he'd…he blinked, staring through his rifle's scope mounted on top of a Londinium office block. He could barely remember _Sentinel_ anymore. It was like a dream now. After he'd graduated he'd…

"Shit," came the voice over the radio.

He blinked again. He could barely remember graduation either. Months, years…

 _Focus._

So he did. He made out the faces. Innocent people, caught up in a Browncoat attack. Miranda's terrified, beautiful face. He knew she was on Londinium. He knew…somehow…that she was…

 _Focus._

Terrorism, pure and simple, he told himself. He didn't know whether they were trying to start a war, or prolong a war they still believed to be ongoing, but it didn't matter. They were here. They'd taken over a restaurant, the media and police descending on them like crows to a corpse. They'd got the attention they wanted. And the operative that was once called Dante Lodovico knew that they were going to go the extra mile. Detonate a dirty bomb that would destroy everything in a mile-wide radius, and contaminate New Cardiff for miles more.

"Take them out," the voice ordered. "HE round."

"What?" he whispered.

"Take them out," the voice repeated, as if Death himself were talking to the living. "End this."

"Sir, Mi…there's children…there's got to be still-"

"Do it!" the voice repeated.

The Operative kept looking through the scope. It showed distance, highlighted vitals, measured windspeed, and just for this occasion, had been equipped with a radiological metre.

"HE rounds may not be needed," he murmured. "If I could just hit-"

"Make the shot," the voice said.

He lay in place.

 _If I could save her._

"Make the shot," it repeated.

 _Children,_ he thought. _There's gorram children there._

He shifted his scope to them. Four, five, three? He couldn't tell.

 _Who deserves to die like that?_

The Browncoats were shouting. Radiological levels were spiking.

 _She…they…could die._

"Fire," the voice said. "Fire. Fire. Fire."

Once, he had believed in God. He had believed in making a better world. He had believed that he'd do something that…that…

 _Oh God…_

But God was not in Heaven. And there was nothing right on this world.

"Do it," said Death.

The Operative inhaled. He lined up his sights at the centre of the room. The HE round would detonate a microsecond after its delivery case was attached to a surface. It would deliver a blast that would incinerate any living thing it touched, courtesy of a cocktail of compounds such as white phosphorous. If they were lucky, death would be instant. If unlucky, they'd live long enough to experience being burned alive.

"Forgive me," he whispered, imagining the children. Fathers. Mothers. Friends and family. Miranda. He hadn't seen her since _Sentinel_. But he'd thought about her. And now…now he was going to kill her.

"Please forgive me."

"Fire," said Death.

And so he did. An HE round was sent 133 metres through the air, landing in Kenyon's, No. 57, Trafalgar Street. And an instant after that, Kenyon's, and everyone in it, ceased to exist.

 _Forgive me._

He watched it explode. He watched the police scramble for cover. He watched as no secondary explosions followed.

 _Forgive me._

"Wake up Dante," said a voice.

He blinked. Suddenly he felt so…tired.

"It's time to wake up," the voice said again.

 _Wake up?_ He squinted his eyes. Everything…the sky, the city, the fire…it was all out of focus. Closing in on itself. As if reality itself was coming apart.

"Wake up," the voice said. "You passed."

* * *

Dante sprung upwards, finding himself in a dark room. A dark room that was familiar, that consisted of a bed, that was also familiar. Veryfamiliar.

 _Have I been dreaming?_

He peered through the darkness. A figure stood before him, next to a monitor, displaying a city. One that was connected to him through two electrodes on his forehead.

"Here," said one of the figures, handing Dante a glass of water. "Drink this."

Dante silently obliged as the figure removed the electrodes. He pushed his back against the end of his bed, staring through the gloom. Soon, he could make out the features of the one before him.

"Denon?"

"That's right, it's me," he said. Denon shut off the monitor. "But since you're an Operative now, I suppose you can call me whatever you want."

An Operative. Dante just sat there. Just like that. He was an operative. It was…something, at least. Taking a sip of water, he didn't know what to think.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked.

"No," said Denon. "But you were."

Dante put the glass down. He frowned, before asking, "that city," he said. "On the monitor."

Denon said nothing.

"I know it," he said. "I've seen it before."

"Minutes ago, actually," Denon said. "But maybe hours. Your mind can alter your perceptions of time when you're asleep."

"I…I've been dreaming?"

"You tell me," Denon said. He drew up a chair and sat in it. "Tell me what happened."

Dante opened his mouth to speak…but said nothing. Not at first. Because Denon's words aside, he felt like this was still a test. Somehow.

"You know," he said softly. "You know what I saw."

Denon didn't say anything.

"What I did," he said. "How I…killed…those people."

"How your subconsciousness killed them," Denon said.

Dante stared at him.

"The dreamscape is a recent invention, based on the concepts of the Rorschach test," Dante's superior said. "It's a way of testing a candidate's subconsciousness. Simulations, training, they have their purpose, but an outsider can only observe the body. The mind is known only to the one whose head it inhabits, no matter how much of it you show to us through your actions." He paused, before saying, "So we test you. To see how far you'd go. To see if you have, shall we say, the killer instinct."

"And I do," Dante said.

"Quite," Denon answered. "Only a small percentage of the human species are natural killers. But you, Lodovico, are in a percentage of your own."

Dante closed his eyes. "So…Londinium…those people…"

"Londinium isn't standard," Denon said. "It's drawn from your subconsciousness – your homeworld, in this case. And…" He smiled. "I notice Miranda was there as well."

Dante opened his eyes. And stared.

"I won't tell her," Denon said. "But it's good to know where your loyalties lie."

"I love her," Dante blurted out.

"Your heart says one thing, your mind another," said Denon. He got to his feet. "But it doesn't matter. For all intents and purposes, you're an Operative now."

Dante closed his eyes again. An operative. There were those words again. And Miranda…

 _I killed her._

It had been a dream. But it had felt so real. He'd been in full control. He'd honestly believed he was on a mission. And he'd followed it through to the end.

 _I killed her._

"The dream," Dante said. "It…how did you…"

"Drugs," Denon said. "Simple process really."

Dante remained silent. All he could think of was the dream. Of what he'd done. How he'd killed Miranda. Killed children.

"But it doesn't matter," said Denon. "Because five hours from now we'll be on a ship to Londinium. And ten hours after that, you'll get to see the planet in reality."

Home. After a year on _Sentinel_ , he was going home.

* * *

The journey to Londinium had been uneventful. Dante, Denon, and Miranda had departed _Sentinel_ in an _Arrowhead_ -class courier. An unremarkable ship that touched down on an unremarkable landing pad in Glamorgan Spaceport – one of a number of spaceports located in New Cardiff, and no different from any of them. They'd been on the shuttle for nearly twenty-four hours. And like everything in that period, the journey itself was unremarkable.

 **Please stand clear of the hatch.**

Dante winced – he was an Operative. Once he entered the Alliance parliament to meet with the Minister of Defence, he'd officially be an Operative. Or at least, in as much officially capacity as being an Operative allowed.

 **Hatch opening.**

 _No, really?_

He glanced at Miranda and she smiled at him. That gorgeous, sweet, smile. They had barely exchanged words in the trip. Not with Denon sitting between them. But even then, Dante didn't know if there was anything he could say. Not after his dream.

But he smiled back. And he liked it.

The hatch opened and a blast of warm air entered the craft. Dante squinted as White Sun blazed away from the sky above – it was warm. Blinding, even. Staggering outside, he tripped, his hands stopping his face from hitting the warm tarmac.

"You alright?"

He glanced up at Denon. His superior had disembarked, and had offered him a hand. Dante didn't say anything, and got onto his feet on his own.

"Nice, isn't it?" Miranda asked. She took a breath, as if there were flowers among the concrete jungle that was the starport – an offshoot of the larger jungle that was New Cardiff. "It's been so long since I've been planetside."

Dante remained silent. But Denon spoke anyway.

"You've been in space for over a year," he said. "Less gravity, recycled air, lower temperature…" He smiled. "There's limits to the human body that not even the Alliance can overcome."

Dante nodded – _Sentinel_ had relied on centrifugal force for its gravity rather than the grav drive the courier had used. The one it must have kept on while the hatch opened.

"We'll give you muscle supplements, immuno-boosters, the works," Denon said. His gaze shifted, and Dante followed it. A pair of officers were coming their way – their uniforms indicated that they were in the Alliance Navy. And their insignias indicated that they were high ranked as well.

"Excuse me."

Denon walked over. No salutes were exchanged, only words that he couldn't hear in the wind. He watched as they walked off to a waiting jitney.

"So," Miranda said, coming to stand beside him. "Nice to be home?"

"Londinium isn't my home," Dante murmured. "Not officially at least."

"And unofficially?" Miranda asked, still smiling. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

Dante sighed. It looked like home. It sounded like home. The buildings, the sky, the air (actual non-recycled air, he reflected). But it didn't feel like home. _Sentinel_ had been his home for over a year. The entire 'Verse had been his home for years longer than that as he'd served in the Unification War. Now, finally back on Londinium, he felt…nothing.

"It's nice," he lied to her. "It feels like I've never left."

Another lie. And he knew that Miranda Atkinson was far too intelligent a woman to buy into it. But also intelligent enough to not press it.

The pair walked across the pad to a nearby bench. There was no sign of Denon. Or anyone else. But he wasn't in a rush. This would be the first day of the rest of his life, as the saying went.

"So, what now?" he asked. "Do we wait for someone?"

"No," Miranda said. He looked up at her.

"So?" he asked.

"I'm supposed to take you through the terminal," she said. "But I…"

He watched as she played with her hands. He'd been trained in psychology in both the SAS and as an Operative. Yet even without that, he'd have to be an idiot not to see that she was uneasy.

"But I…"

He was starting to feel like an idiot though.

"Dante, you don't have to do this."

She knelt down, and took his hands in hers. Stared at him with those gorgeous eyes.

"Miranda, what-"

"Dante, there's still time," she said. "You don't have to become an Operative. You…you can do better."

"Miranda, I-"

"Dante, I've seen too many people like you. I've seen them go off, never to be heard from again. I…I don't want to lose you."

 _Wo cao_ , he reflected to himself.

"I…I love you."

 _Very wo cao._

"And I think that you love me."

Dante sat there. He couldn't think straight. This fresh air, this higher gravity, the summer heat, the sweat that was coming from another source…

"Please," she said. "We can…go, somewhere. Anywhere. We can have a life."

"Miranda…"

She kissed him. Repeatedly. He didn't even resist.

"Please," she said. "On _Sentinel_ …I know it was real. It…can be real here."

He kissed her back. He couldn't help it. Over a year, in close proximity to…to…

 _I want her._

It was a simple admission. But it was true. He was only human, he told himself. He had been trained to-

 _I believe in Man. I believe in a world without sin._

His words came back to him. The words he had told Riggs at Hera.

"Come on," she said. "We can leave. I…I don't want to lose you. I don't want to live my life, wondering what happened to you."

 _And are you willing to put everything from your past behind you? To be a ghost? To live a half-life, so that others may live theirs to the fullest? To even cast aside your own name?_

More words. But they were a question this time. Yet he knew the answer. Or at least, the answer he had given Riggs back then.

 _Or was it Patrick?_

"Come on," Miranda said. She took his hand, trying to get him to stand up. "Let's leave."

But he remained in place. Because he remembered the answer.

"No," he said.

He remembered the dream.

"I can't," he said. "God help me Miranda, I want to. I…really…want to."

Miranda Atkinson was an intelligent woman. Intelligent enough to know what he was saying. And had a heart large enough that he could see into it through her eyes.

"But I made a promise," he said. "I can't turn back now."

"Of course you can," she said. "The Alliance can't make you do anything. They can't force you to do this!"

"They're not forcing me to do anything. But I have to do this."

"You don't!" she yelled. "You don't!"

But he had to. But for reasons he wasn't telling her.

"I can't," he said. He felt her hand slip out of his grasp. "I want to. I would love to. But I…can't."

He'd killed. He'd maimed. He would do all that, and more. But that wasn't the reason.

It was that he had killed her. In his dream. He had been lucid, and decided that the orders of his superiors were worth more than Miranda's life. Statistically, the rationale was sound. But…

"I'm sorry."

But he couldn't do it. Because for all his sins, Dante considered himself to be an honest man.

"I just can't."

He couldn't live a lie. He could live as a ghost. But not as a liar.

Miranda nodded. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Nor did she say anything as they walked through the terminal. As their passes were cleared, military credentials (faked, but official to the starport staff) giving them priority of passage. As he looked around – men, women, children. Families. Traders. Soldiers. All of them living their lives. All of them uncaring of what he felt. Of how it hurt him to see Miranda like this – her silence. Her refusal to meet his eyes, or hold his hand. He wanted to scream when the final desk clerk said "welcome to Londinium." To strangle the bastard. To make him go into the depths of space. To make him sacrifice everything, so that another fat slob could have a life of stamping passports and telling people to smile for the facial scan. He wanted that. He wanted to do that, and come home, and have a life. He even wanted to see his father again.

How he envied them.

But he kept walking. And the pair came to the arrivals terminal. Passed the loved ones waiting for friends and family. Past people who lived. Past citizens of the Union of Allied Planets, that he had given up everything to protect.

"Last chance," Miranda whispered.

He winced at her words. He winced as a husband kissed his wife. As a child met his aunt. He winced, and turned his eyes away. Only to find Miranda's boring into them.

"I can't," he said. "I just can't."

"Fine," she said.

She didn't say anything as they exited the terminal doors. As they saw Denon standing beside a government-owned coupe that would take them to the Alliance parliament. As he smiled, and complained about bureaucracy.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

Dante glanced at Miranda, already on her way to a taxi. For a moment, her gaze met his. For a moment, he wanted to run after her. For a moment, he wanted to throw everything away, just so he could be with her.

"Yes," he said. "Everything's fine."

But only for a moment.

But as he stepped into the coupe, as it rolled off, as he closed his eyes and burnt Miranda's face into his mind, he remembered something he'd realized during the war. As he'd fought, and killed, and lost, and grieved.

A moment could last a long time.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _Despite the length, there's not too much to discuss in this chapter from a writing standpoint. This was one of a few chapters I considered splitting into two because of the length, but other chapters didn't have a good middle cut-off point, so it ended up being one chapter._

 _Fun fact, managed to track down a replica of the Operative's sword from the film. Used it as reference for the swordsplay sections, as I felt it was important to provide a justification as to why, in the 26th century, the Operatives use swords at all. There's arguably a precedent via_ Shindig _, but duels are different from everyday use._


	5. Gluttony

_Those ancients who in poetry presented the golden age, who sang its happy state, perhaps, in their Parnassus, dreamt this place. Here, mankind's root was innocent; and here were every fruit and never-ending spring; these streams-the nectar of which poets sing._

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Chapter 4: Gluttony**

"Now, Juno was Hera's counterpart in the Roman pantheon of Earth-That-Was. That Junopia is the capital of this planet is no mistake, mark my words."

Tristan Keats smiled and nodded politely at his host's rambling. Yes, he did know his old mythology, of Rome, Greece, and many other cultures of humanity's homeworld. Salim Bhairavi didn't have to spell that out. But that said, Salim Bhairavi was the governor of Hera. It was his prerogative to ramble on at dinner parties.

"But of course, this is common, no?" Salim asked, in-between mouthfuls of his steak. "Persephone. Osiris. Ariel. Bellerophon. All from our old mythologies. All harkening to a golden past."

"And all in White Sun," said Maria.

"Exactly," Salim said, slapping the woman's shoulder, getting some gravy on it in the process. "White Sun. Ah sweet, sweet White Sun. Oh, may I someday live to see its glow once more. Don't get me wrong, Georgia shines a lovely light, but nothing will compare to home."

Tristan knew the feeling.

"To home!" Salim declared, holding up his glass of wine – a Shiraz, taken from Hera's own vineyards. "To home, and better days."

"To better days," the governor's guests echoed, Tristan included. He took a sip – it didn't taste half bad. He wasn't a connoisseur, but again, it was Salim's party. It would be rude to not partake in the spoils of Hera's bosom.

That said, Salim was covering that quite adequately. He was on his third steak – rare, fat included, complimented with potatoes, carrots, peas, and a purple vegetable Tristan couldn't identify. The other guests had finished their main around ten minutes ago. Salim had finished his first main five minutes before that. All that remained to be seen was whether he'd ask for a fourth helping, or call for desert.

"So, tell me then," said Maria, her dress now clean thanks to one of Salim's servants. "What's there to do on Hera?"

"Oh, so much, so much," Salim laughed. "Hercules Falls are a must, for starters. Mount Zeus, well, you can climb it, parasail from it, fly over it. And the Cliffs of Omphale are a sight to behold."

"And Serenity Valley," Tristan murmured.

"Ah yes," Salim said. He put aside his plate, the food consumed, the plate disappearing into the ether as well as a servant picked it up to take to the kitchen. "Terrible, terrible business that. How many years has it been? Three?"

"Two," said Michael Boateng, the third of Salim's guests, and the most quiet. "It's been two years."

"Two years," Salim said. He held up his wine glass. "Well, a toast then. To many more years of peace, harmony, and a safer, better universe."

More glasses were raised. More glasses were drunk from. A servant came round to refill them though Tristan declined. Instead, he looked at his guests.

Maria Libranos, Minister of Agriculture. Hera was an agricultural world, and now, part of the Union of Allied Planets, it was expected that it would be the Alliance's food bowl. She talked about places she wanted to see, of things she wanted to do. But this was a government-funded trip from Londinium, and travel between star systems wasn't cheap. She'd be visiting Hera's four continents, the capital of each of them, and would deliver a report in a month's time as to how each of Hera's agricultural regions was functioning. She talked gaily with Salim on matters of local attitudes, but Tristan knew her well enough to appreciate the game she was part of. The game she was playing. To say what she wanted to say, without ever outright saying it.

"But surely the population must have quietened down by now," ventured Michael, now engaged in the conversation. "I mean, we brought civilization, technology, medicine. I know war wounds take a long time to heal, but-"

 _But some wounds never heal,_ Tristan reflected.

Michael and Maria continued to talk, the man's German accent shining through his other functionally perfect English. He was an assistant to the Minister of Inter-planetary Transport in the Alliance parliament, here to make a report of his own pertaining to Hera's exports – quantity, transport routes, etc. If it was Maria's job to make sure the food was being produced, it was Michael's job to ensure it got into the Core. Minister Whitaker would have been here herself if not for her being present on Harvest in the Red Sun system, doing exactly the same work as her assistant. It had been especially hectic since the disappearance of the _Magellan_ on its way to Blue Sun.

"Well, no matter," Salim declared, by way of setting the question of why Hera's inhabitants were so restless. "Look, desert!"

And then there was Salim Bhairavi, Tristan reflected. Indian, bald, the eldest of them all, and easily the largest as well. Obese, actually. He didn't know the BMI figure that determined the difference between overweight and obesity, but Salim was clearly on the heavier side of it.

"Peaches and ice-cream," Salim said, laughing. "How long has it been since peaches were allowed, eh?"

"I heard there's a shortage across the Verse," Maria mused. She put down her spoon. "Actually, I was hoping-"

"Relax, relax," Salim said, between mouthfuls. "All in good time, yes?"

"Yes," Maria murmured. "In good time."

Tristan took a bite of his ice-cream, peaches included. It was…divine. There was no other word for it. Hera had a shortage of everything, peaches included, but somehow, Salim had procured them this delicacy.

Of course, Salim had procured a lot over the two years he'd been governor. Wealth. Money. Affluence, at least among those who had accepted the Alliance's rule over the formerly independent world. And it showed in his residence, from the dining room, to the sitting room that Salim had promised to take them next. Music and chocolates no doubt.

"And how about you Tristan?" Salim asked.

He looked up. "Pardon?"

"You," he said. "These two worry-warts have work to do, but you…you shall accompany me tomorrow, yes?"

Tristan smiled. "That would be great, but-"

"Oh please," Salim said, putting down his empty bowl, a servant taking it away less than a second later. "Serenity View is a lovely place. And Serenity Valley itself…beautiful. Truly beautiful."

"Is it still a graveyard?" Maria murmured. She pushed her plate to one side, the peaches mostly untouched.

"Oh, there's some graveyard, somewhere," Salim murmured. "I hear the locals do their thing there."

Tristan saw Michael wince, before murmuring, "and Core-worlders."

"Ah yes, you lost a brother didn't you?"

"Sister."

"Yes, tragic, tragic," Salim said, before looking at Tristan. "But you, my friend. You can have a good time, yes?"

Tristan smiled. "I can make the time," he said. "Though my masters on Londinium are-"

"Bah, the Department of Education can wait," Salim said. "This is Hera. Browncoats turned country hicks galore." He started on his second bowl. "I mean, yes, an educated populace is a productive populace, but these are farmers," he said. He waved his spoon. "Now, Osiris, let me tell you. Its university…those are the people who will make the future, not dirt farmers. Leave well enough alone, as my father said." He looked at Maria. "You haven't touched your peaches."

"I don't like peaches."

"Ah, you wound me," Salim said. "But if you do not wish to…well, no matter." He took her bowl for himself and began eating. "Waste not, want not, eh?"

"Yes," Maria said. "I'm sure the people of Hera hope the same bounty will come to them as well." Tristan saw the look in her eyes, even as Salim didn't meet them. "Something I hope to talk to you about before the month is out."

"All in good time," Salim said. He put the bowl aside and let out a belch. Michael winced. Tristan smiled. Dinner parties. He loved them.

"Now then?" Salim said. "Who's up for chocolates?"

Tristan laughed.

* * *

Serenity View was a small town of between 100 and 200 souls. It was located at the eastern end of Serenity Valley, and had quickly fallen to the Alliance when the battle had started. It had also survived relatively unscathed – the Independents had no need to fire on the settlement. Not when the Alliance had been sending so many men into the valley for the Browncoats to kill. But while Serenity View had been spared from the horrors of war, Hera as a whole, had not. It was said by some locals that Serenity Valley had been the heart of the world, and with the loss of its heart, their world had died. Strong words to be sure, but there was no denying in Tristan's mind that Serenity Valley had been the death knell for the Independents.

Which was why a representative of the Ministry of Education wasn't exactly a welcome sight in this town. This town of horses, manure, horses, six-shooters, and more horses. And rifles. Like many of the outer planets, Serenity View resembled the Old West of Earth-That-Was. So wearing a white formal shirt with a blue tie, and black trousers, all of his clothing drenched in sweat, Tristan felt very out of place indeed.

"Tristan?"

But not as much as Salim. The man was a giant among people who were lucky to get one meal a day. They had landed his personal transport outside the town, and had come for sightseeing. Among the people of a planet who were quite happy to vent their frustrations through violence, potentially at the man who ruled them. The man whom many accused of corruption.

"Here," Tristan said, handing Salim a drink, before starting on his own, identical one. "Compliments from the bartender."

Salim gulped it down. Tristan decided not to point out that the bartender's compliments had included words such as "purple belly" and "ta ma de hun dan."

"Excellent," Salim said, handing back Tristan the plastic bottle. "Blueberry?"

"Raspberry."

"Ah, well, you can't always be right."

"No. I suppose you can't."

A silence descended between the two-men. Serenity View would be their first stop in today's sight-seeing trip, but not their last, as Salim had reminded him before landing.

"As you can see," Salim said, walking down the main street, "Hera is fine. The war is over. The people are happy."

"There are some who might disagree with that assessment."

"Nonsense," Salim said. He walked over to an old man who was missing one arm, and cooking some kind of meat with the other. Before long some credits had exchanged hands, and Salim was eating the delicacy, wrapped up in a piece of old newspaper.

"You know that some people still use scrip?" Salim asked, in-between mouthfuls of his food. "The old Independents currency is practically worthless on the inter-system market, yet here, some value it even more than credits."

"Old habits die hard," Tristan said. He took the last sip of his drink, and looked for a garbage bin. There was none to be found, though there was no shortage of litter on the dirt path they walked down, wooden houses on either side of it. "It's only been two years since the war. Winning hearts and minds takes time."

"Time," Salim parroted. "Time, time, time." He patted Tristan on the shoulder. "Always, so little of it, people say. But Hera…Hera is without time, no? Very…very peaceful."

"So the food riots in Semele are peaceful," Tristan said. "And the hostage crisis in Apollo last month. And-"

"Trifles, trifles," Salim said. He finished off his food, and met Tristan's gaze. "All of them trifles."

"You already said that."

"These people," he said, waving an arm around, covering men, women, and the few children that Tristan saw, all of whom looked hungry. "Time may have stopped, yet marches on. These people…they will learn. They will learn to serve."

"Yeah, but how long will that take?" Tristan asked. "Agricultural yields are down all over the planet. There's a huge generation gap due to the casualties the Independents took here back in the war, and the economy is in shambles as a result. There's starvation being reported, and the accusations of corruption are-"

"Nonsense," Salim said. "Utter nonsense."

"There's even talk of Minister Rodrigo Elbert taking your place. That there's pressure for you to step down, and-"

Look," Salim said. "All of these accusations, this slander, they're nonsense, my friend." He a put a hand to his chest. "I am here to serve. Both mankind and the Alliance. Is that not why we are all here?"

Tristan smiled. "Of course." He stretched out his arms, taking in the breeze, and the clear sky, bereft of sky-traffic and clouds. A cool breeze began to blow, leaving him to shiver in its wake. And Salim began walking again.

"And of course," Tristan said, hurrying after him. "I didn't mean to insult you. Maria, Michael, they can do their thing. What the people eat isn't my concern."

"No," Salim said. He stopped, turned, and smiled. "You and me, my friend. Men like us – we work hard. Play hard. We understand that life is to be lived, no?"

"Of course," Tristan said. He held up his empty bottle in toast. "To life."

"To life," Salim agreed. He looked at the bottle. "Hmm. Perhaps this calls for a second round, no?"

"Oh yes," Tristan said. "Most definitely."

* * *

Two years on, Serenity Valley bore all the signs of the battle that had been fought there. The signs could be seen from the air, as Salim had taken his personal transport over the land. And on the ground, those signs were still present. Burnt out vehicles, barbed wire, trenches. All that was missing were the bodies. All 500,000 of them.

"And here we are," Salim said, as he followed Tristan out of the transport's hatch, onto the valley floor. "Serenity Valley. The people say that once you've been in Serenity, you never leave. You just learn to live there." He took a sniff of the air. "Delightful."

Tristan didn't want to smell the air. There was enough of a smell here already. Its scent was called death.

"Well then?" Salim asked. "Shall we?"

Tristan nodded. He followed Salim as he began walking across the charred landscape. His step unsteady as they moved across the burnt-out landscape. Serenity Valley had never been lush to begin with. But now? Thanks to the Alliance bombardment of the area in the final minutes of the battle, it was well and truly a wasteland.

"Into the Valley of Death rode the six-hundred…"

Salim glanced at him.

"Old Earth poem," Tristan murmured.

"Poetry," Salim said. He let out a cough. "Such an art, isn't it? I find that women always like a poet."

Tristan shrugged – "I just like reading poetry. I don't think the opposite sex has to factor into it."

"But the truth, my friend," Salim said. "Is there someone in your life? Someone to whom you could eulogize to?"

"Maybe," he murmured. "Once…I thought…well, there was someone that I…well, never mind."

Salim didn't say anything. It looked like he was having trouble breathing – his face was red, sweat poured down it, and he was rubbing his right arm.

"You alright?" Tristan asked.

"Fine, my friend," Salim said, in-between breaths. "Let's…let's go on."

And so they did. Through the Valley of Death, heading westward, towards the setting sun, where light met shadow and night came to swallow the land. Such were Tristan's thoughts as he kept walking. Surrounded by this nightmare.

No-one liked the detritus in Serenity Valley – the bodies had been removed, but all of Hera needed rebuilding after the Unification War, and Parliament had decided that resources were better spent on habituated areas, rather than cleaning up the junk of a war they wanted the 'Verse to forget. But the people of Hera remembered. Everything in Serenity Valley was a reminder of the war they had fought. Of the lives lost.

"I…I need to rest."

Tristan watched as Salim sat down on a rock. Ahead was what marked the former Independent lines. From here he could see foxholes, command posts, even the remains of a downed skiff. If Serenity Valley was the Valley of Death, then it had indeed been the Alliance who had been the 600, charging the guns of their enemy.

 _Course, Earth-That-Was didn't have airplanes back in the day._

"I…I need…"

He looked at Salim. The man's breathing was rapid, and shallow. He was now clutching his chest, and rocking back and forth.

"You alright?" Tristan asked. "Would you like some water?"

Salim didn't say anything. But as Tristan handed him a water bottle that he'd taken from the transport, Salim grabbed it anyway, and poured it down his throat. Specks of water fell onto the barren soil. Soil in which nothing grew, the water left at the mercy of the sun.

"I…I think…I…I…"

Salim retched, and fell forward. His hands stopped his face from making contact with the ground. His left kept him steady, while his right held his chest.

"I…I'm having…a…a…"

"A heart attack?" Tristan asked.

Salim looked up at him. Tristan could see the fear and confusion in his eyes.

"Because if that's your guess, then you're right," he said. He looked at his watch. "And good timing too. If it had occurred while you were flying the transport, then I might have had some problems."

Salim stared at him. The confusion was still there, as was the fear. And both were growing, as his pupils dilated. As his retched, and clutched at his chest. His heart, to be specific.

"Salim Bhairavi," Tristan said, as he began walking around the dying man. "Do you know what your sin is?"

Salim didn't answer. He was too busy trying to stay alive.

"It's gluttony," he said. "An entire world starving, and you're helping yourself to steak. And peaches. And appropriating millions of credits for your own purposes." He smirked. "But mostly for food, I suspect."

Salim's time was nearly up.

"In case you're wondering, your body's cells are currently undergoing apoptosis," Tristan continued. He sat down on the boulder, and nudged Salim's body aside. "Little cocktail I put in your blueberry…oh, I'm sorry, _raspberry_ juice. Course everyone was waiting for you to die anyway, but certain figures in the Alliance have decided that they can't wait. And since you won't move your fat arse yourself, and Mister Elbert has shown nothing but integrity and faith in post-war revitalization efforts…well, the thing is Salim, your services are no longer needed."

"You…" Salim tried to speak. His eyes were now showing anger. More than the fear and confusion. "You…you…"

"So, here's what's going to happen," Tristan said. "I'm going to run back to the transport. I'm going to call for help. I'm going to say how sorry I am that I couldn't save you. And then…well, then my mission will be over, and I really don't care what they do to your body. Maybe turn it into protein bars. God knows the planet needs them."

"Wh…why?" Salim asked. The anger was going. The fear was returning. And continued to do so as Tristan knelt beside him.

"Better worlds," he whispered in Salim's ear. "We're making all of them…better worlds. Worlds without sin. Worlds that men like you have no place in."

Salim retched, reaching out to Tristan for help. But it was to no avail. He fell to the valley floor. Dead. His body lying in the light of Hera's sun.

"Or men like me," Tristan whispered.

* * *

Serenity Graveyard was located on the opposite side of the valley from Serenity View. On the Independent side, near the place where they had made their final stand. Some called it fitting – the idea that Hera was theirs, that the graveyard should be in the place of the defenders, not invaders. Others called it fitting because of how the Browncoats had taken the lion's share of the casualties of that battle. And others didn't comment at all. Because a graveyard was a graveyard, in their minds. It wasn't their place to speculate on the appropriateness of its location, but appreciate that it existed at all.

It was through the gravestones that Tristan walked – tie removed, sleeves rolled up, but otherwise maintaining his formal wear. Some of them had names. Many did not – the Alliance had left Serenity Valley as it had been for the two years bar the bodies. And the bodies themselves had been quickly buried here. The result was that many of the casualties were unidentified, at least in regards to which grave was theirs. Alliance and Independent alike had been buried side by side.

Tristan walked among the headstones. He stretched out a palm, feeling the cold touch of granite as he moved it over the markers. Remembering the touch of his mother's grave, and how similar the physical feelings were, if not emotional ones. There were a lot of flowers here, and a few people as well, this late in the evening, spread across the hundreds of thousands of gravestones that made up the cemetery. Few knew where their loved ones were interred, but it hadn't stopped them from choosing a grave and marking it as their own. A way of expressing their grief, to turn a piece of stone into something meaningful.

And so he stopped at one. A gravestone, like any other, its shadow long, as Hera's star set in the sky. Stopped, and placed a hand on it.

"Siri Gardinia," he murmured. "Jean Lacretelle. Bronner Cuesta. Oliver Law."

They wouldn't be buried here. They hadn't even fallen in Serenity Valley. Their bodies had been incinerated and never returned. Only a select few people would ever know they existed, and fewer what they had done.

"Does it bother you?"

Tristan remained looking at the grave. He remained silent as his contact came to join him.

"Old war wounds eh?"

Tristan glanced at the man, before returning his gaze to the marker.

"You once said that getting people killed was a bit of a theme for me," Tristan murmured. "So, now that I've killed someone directly…what now?"

"What of it? You killed before becoming an Operative. Before you started using names like Tristan Keats."

"Keats." He smirked. "John Keats. Brilliant poet. I may have even spotted a copy at my target's mansion."

"And did Dante Lodovico hold such high regard as well?"

Tristan glanced at his contact. And this time, his gaze remained fixed on him. The brown eyes, the brown hair, the featureless face. A face no different than from when he'd last seen it two years ago.

"You tell me, Patrick."

The contact raised an eyebrow. But then smiled.

"Patrick," he said. "Well, that's a name I haven't heard in a long time. Let alone used."

"Well, I'm working on it," the Operative said. The Operative whose real name was Dante Lodovico. The Operative whose current alias was Tristan Keats. He glanced back at the grave. "You know, it's funny. I don't think I would have come here once."

"And why's that?"

"Because this is the planet of the enemy. Because I fought the Independents. Because they killed my friends."

"Friends?"

"Allies," corrected Dante. "I…well, I was in the SAS. I had a job to do. I did that job, and thanks to me, the Alliance carried the day."

"General Wilkins might say otherwise."

"Of course," Dante smiled.

"And what now?" Riggs asked (not Patrick, "Riggs" – he would always be "Riggs" in Dante's mind). "How do you feel now?"

"Now…well, now, we're all in the same 'Verse. The war's over. Men like us make the hard choices. Do what no-one else can." He looked at Riggs. "That's what you told me once. Three years ago, above this same planet.

"I did."

"But it's more than that, isn't it? It's…it's about making better worlds. All of them, better. Worlds without sin. Worlds where men like Salim Bhairavi won't exist."

Riggs nodded, and patted Dante on the shoulder. "Very good," he said. "It's…good…to see you here. Like this." He smiled. "Dante Lodovico is dead. He died the moment he chose to be something more."

"That's a nice speech."

"Take what praise you can get. You won't receive much of it in this line of work."

This time, it was Dante's turn to laugh. Not telling him that on some level, he called himself Dante Lodovico. That for better or worse, his sense of identity remained. "True. Though, I am wondering…y'know…."

"Salim's dead," Riggs said. "No-one cares either. Rodrigo Elbert has been made governor of Hera, and no-one's objecting to that."

"And Elbert himself?"

"He's a good man," Riggs said. "I don't say that much, but yes, Elbert will do a good job. He, like you, believes in a better world. And he'll fix it. The people may hate him at first, but that'll stop once there's food in their bellies."

"And the rest of the 'Verse?"

"All in good time," Riggs answered.

A silence lingered between the two men, and Dante frowned. Riggs was right – he wouldn't be praised for this, his first assignment. Salim's death couldn't be praised. He couldn't be rewarded for assassinating a government official at the behest of that same government Salim had owed his own allegiance to. And Riggs was also right in that there were many worlds who still resented the Alliance. Standing here now, in the company of the dead, he could understand why. He had helped kill these people. He did not regret it – it was a war. It had been necessary, as the Alliance had brought civilization to the fringes of the 'Verse. But the wounds were there. And he had to help mend them.

"One thing though," said Riggs. Dante looked at him. "We've got your conversations on record, thanks to your PTD."

The Operative smiled. "Hammed it up, did I? Yeah, I knew the personal transmission device would be recording it, but hey, you think anyone but Salim was around to hear?"

Riggs smiled back. "Maybe. But that thing you said, about there being a woman in your life…"

"Humour," said Dante quickly. "A lie to Salim. Keep him on my good side and all that."

"A good tactic," said Riggs. "But it wasn't a lie, was it?"

Dante's smile faded.

"Miranda Atkinson," said Riggs. Dante opened his mouth, but Riggs kept talking. "Yes, I know the story. About _Sentinel_. About those long talks as you gazed at the stars and all that go shi. And I also know that in the year that you've been away, you haven't stopped trying to keep tabs on her. Where she is, what she's doing-"

"Sir, I-"

"Stop," Riggs said. "I'm not a 'Sir.' I'm your elder, and more experienced, but I don't command you."

"Then why are you saying this?"

"Because you don't exist," he said. "And nor does Miranda Atkinson. You had your chance on Londinium, and you made the right choice. So don't regret it. Don't go chasing ghosts. Because it can never happen."

"What I do with my resources is my own prerogative," Dante murmured. "It's a privilege of the position. The same privilege you explained to me three years ago."

"Yes," said Riggs. "And I can't stop you."

He walked by him. Whispering, "but like Salim, we're all expendable. So keep that in mind."

Dante glanced at him. Riggs kept walking. He was headed for God-knew where. And Dante…he'd be appearing at Salim's funeral. To give an account of Salim Bhairavi's last moments. How he had been noble to the end. To say the things everyone expected him to say.

But that was a week away. Six days, in about five hours time.

And he remained standing. Looking at the gravestone. At the thousands of gravestones before him. The monuments to unremembered dead.

And wondered if Dante Lodovico was among them.


	6. Lust

_The day that Man allows true love to appear, those things which are well made will fall into confusion and will overturn everything we believe to be right and true. Lost are we, and are only so far punished, that without hope we live on in desire._

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Chapter 5: Lust**

 **Search – "Miranda Atkinson"**

 **430,000,000 results**

 **Filter/Alliance secure network, Operative**

 **Working…**

 **Identification Code?**

… **Code Accepted. Operative access granted**

 **Miranda Atkinson, Filter/Sentinel, 2511-2512**

 **Working…**

… **No results**

 **Search – "Miranda Atkinson"**

 **Filter/Londinium, Filter/IAV Wu Cheng'en, Filter/Glamorgan Spaceport, Filter/05/06/2512**

… **No results**

" **Esc"**

Dante put a hand to his chin and looked at the terminal. Four years since he'd become an Operative and Miranda Atkinson disappeared from his life. Three since his first field mission on Hera. And two months since he had given in to his emotions. Since he had started using his resources to try and find the woman he'd met on _Sentinel_. To use everything from the Cortex, to intelligence agencies that were reserved for only certain branches of the Alliance's military. And now, using the network reserved for Operative usage only. One where its users should be able to find out everything about anything, whether it be a strapping infant on Persephone, to a magistrate on a backwater outer world. The sum total of the knowledge possessed by the Union of Allied Planets at their fingertips.

 _No results._

And yet, he couldn't find her. Two months of searching, and it was as if Miranda Atkinson had never existed. Oh, there were plenty of Miranda Atkinsons in the 'Verse, but none of them were the woman he'd met all those years ago.

The Operative lay back in his chair, the room's only illumination a single bulb up above, and the terminal in front of him. He'd had four years to get used to this. His training on _Sentinel_ had included information retrieval. He'd been able to track down the locations of Denon, Patrick, Samar, and even learn their real names. He'd even found out that Samar, bastard as he was, had watched _Of Love and Many Moons_ when he was three years old, and had first kissed a girl at the age of 15. But Miranda Atkinson didn't seem to exist. There was no trace of her. Some Operatives he could find out nothing more than the fact that they existed, but for a systems specialist, based on information retrieval, he couldn't even say _that_.

But she had existed. Miranda Atkinson had spent a year on _Sentinel_. Months by his side as they'd grown close. Miranda Atkinson had, without a doubt, landed with him on Londinium at Glamorgan Spaceport, in the last time he had seen her. When he had turned away from a woman who had crept back into his thoughts over the years.

 _So where did you go? After that taxi took you away?_

Dante rubbed his eyes – he couldn't find her. He'd gone back and looked at the records, had confirmed that on August 15, 2506, the colony ship _Pioneer_ had exploded within Bernadette's atmosphere, killing everyone aboard, and ending the lives of an additional 335 people in the spaceport below. He'd never pressed Miranda on the details of the incident, but he'd gone over the Alliance's network, tracked down the details of every deceased citizen, and tried to connect them to the woman whose family she'd lost. But for all the family trees he'd constructed, Miranda Atkinson was nowhere to be found.

 _Where are you?_ He wondered. He stared at the screen, wishing that he at least had an image. Something to keep her face fresh as it faced away in his mind, even as thoughts of her increased. _Where are you hiding?_

It made no sense. Even if Miranda Atkinson had been something more than a tech girl, the amount of security to hide her existence completely would have been insane. Why hide her like this?

He didn't know. He'd given up the chance for a life with her. He couldn't have that life now. And yet…he wanted to see her again. See how she was. To validate himself, that all the lives he had taken, all the dark, dirty deeds that no-one in the 'Verse would ever know had been committed, had been for something. That he was creating a world without sin. One where people like Miranda Atkinson could live in peace.

 **Captain Smith to the bridge.**

And people like Karima Leow as well. Even if she was the captain of the IAV _Leopold_ , a _Victoria_ -class corvette not dissimilar from the _Alfred_. A warship that had done its fair share of wet works both during and after the Unification War.

 **Captain Smith to the bridge please.**

Dante rolled his chair across the room and hit a button built into the wall – the acknowledgement signal. Officially, Karima Leow was in charge of this operation. Unofficially, "John Smith" was in command. And everyone on the ship knew it. They wouldn't know his real name, or why he'd been sent out here, but they knew his rank and standing. Knew he could tell them to bungie jump out an airlock, and they'd be obliged to do so under the chains of command he wielded.

But he wouldn't tell them to do that. Not today at least.

Given the nature of this operation, he wanted as many able men and women at his disposal as possible.

* * *

Karima Leow was the captain of the _Leopold_. She and her crew were members of the ANIS – Alliance Naval Intelligence Service. Called "anus" by those with a grudge against the branch, and called "NIS" by those within it, the service was one of the clandestine branches of the Union of Allied Planets Navy. Tasked with deep-space reconnaissance and policing the navy itself, ships like the _Leopold_ were some of the most secretive in the 'Verse.

And yet every man and woman aboard this ship was subordinate to the Operative that walked among them. They knew he was an agent of parliament, and Dante had let them call him "John Smith" for easy communication. _Captain_ , John Smith, as Karima Leow called him. He possessed no real rank, but if it did the captain's pride good for him to have a rank that was not higher than hers, so be it.

"Captain," she said as he walked onto the bridge.

Dante remained silent. For a moment, he was reminded of the days when SAS felt like the best and brightest of the Alliance military. When he'd been in the company of General Wilkins and the four other members of Spectre Team. When his focus had been on ending a war. Not waging one in the shadows.

"Well?" he asked. "What have you got?"

Leow gestured to the vessel's plasteel that separated the bridge from the vacuum of space. In which a single ship hung.

"Our target," she said. "The _Vagabond_. Launched from Rubicon in the White Sun system two months ago, headed for Deadwood in Blue Sun. Fifty-six hours ago, its distress call was received, utilizing tight-beam. And…" She trailed off, before saying, "and that's when you took over my ship."

Dante ignored the jibe. Instead, he said, "give me a display of our location. Full scale."

Leow obliged, and walked over to a terminal. Dante followed, and was presented with a map of the Verse. White Sun in the Core, Georgia and Red Sun making up the Rim, and then the star systems that made up the Border. Kaldissa, on one side of the Verse, and Blue Sun on the other.

"We're here," said Leow, gesturing to an icon on the map representing their location. "Between Georgia and Blue Sun. About forty AU's out from the latter." She glanced at Dante. "Deep space."

Dante remained silent. He returned his gaze to the _Vagabond_ – a colony ship, and an ancient one at that. Just spinning there silently, as the universe turned around it.

"And here we are then," Leow said. "Out here in the deep black, the pi gu away from any notion of civilized society." She glanced at Dante. "Don't suppose you're going to tell me why?"

Dante didn't answer. He knew his orders – investigate the _Vagabond_ , gather intelligence on the perceived threat, and destroy all evidence of the attack. Information would be doled out on a need-to-know basis to the crew of the _Leopold_. And who needed to know was at his discretion.

"Well?"

And Captain Leow didn't need to know as far as he was concerned. Not yet anyway.

"Pretty beat up," Dante murmured.

Leow nodded, gesturing towards the ship in front of them. "There's burn marks across the surface. It's taken a pounding."

"Type of weapon?"

"Given those scars, my guess would be an ion beam."

Dante remained silent – ion beams were used to disable ships rather than destroy them. Given the lack of any debris surrounding the _Vagabond,_ it looked like its attackers had succeeded in taking the ship undamaged."

"Bring me thermals," he said. "Any survivors."

Leow gestured towards one of the bridge crew. A second later, a black screen was superimposed over the bridge's plasteel.

"There," said Leow, pointing to the ship's aft end. "In the storage bay."

Dante followed her finger – there were three warm bodies, all huddled together.

"Temperature's near zero in there," Leow continued. "Refrigeration unit maybe?"

"Out here?" asked Dante. "No. This is a colony ship. Storing meat's very inefficient. Usually colonists rely on vegetables, protein bars…anything to lighten the load. And cost."

Silence lingered on the bridge. Leow sighed, and Dante knew what was coming next.

"Listen," she began. "I know that you have some great big reason to be out here. That there's a reason why I'm not allowed access to the distress call transcript. And a whole lot of other stuff."

"And that as a member of ANIS you have to keep secrets all the time."

"Yes," Leow said, looking perturbed. "But listen. It's-"

"Your ship, your crew, your mission." Dante chuckled. "Wrong on all three counts. And before you ask, yes, this operation is on a need-to-know basis. And no, I don't think you need to know."

Leow's gaze narrowed. Glancing around the bridge, Dante looked at the uniforms of all those around him – dark blue, standing in contrast to his space-black Operative uniform. Holstered laser pistol, sword at his back…he was the crew's ugly duckling. One that had no intention of turning into a swan and giving this story a happy ending. And given the state of the _Vagabond_ , not the means either.

"So what now?" Leow asked. "Do we, oh, I don't know, rescue these people?"

Dante remained silent for a moment, before saying, "you have marines on board, correct?"

"Yes," Leow responded. "Two squads. Why?"

"Have them meet me in briefing room two in ten minutes."

"I-"

"In the meantime, go into stealth mode. No transmissions, no active scans, nothing that could give away our position." Dante glanced at her. "You understand, of course?"

"…yes, Captain."

She didn't understand why. But she understood that he was in charge.

And right now, that was all the understanding he required.

* * *

Once again, Dante found himself reminded of Hera. The briefing where he and the rest of Spectre Team had been given their mission by General Wilkins. A mission that had cost him the lives of his unit, yet won the war for the Alliance. Looking at the twenty men and women arrayed before him, he was briefly reminded of the moment. Briefly wondered how many of these marines would be dead by the time this mission was over.

And yet, the differences were present as well. On Hera, the unit had a clear mission objective. Hera had been part of a wider battle. This op, on the other hand, was even blacker than the one Wilkins had set him on. One where they didn't even have a clear enemy.

"At ease," Dante said. He activated a hologram that depicted the ship, reflecting on another difference – this mission wasn't guaranteed to end in bloodshed. There was a strong chance that all twenty of these soldiers would return without a scratch.

"You know the situation with the _Vagabond_ ," he said, gesturing to the display. "I can confirm that thermals have identified three possible survivors within the storage bay."

"Have we hailed them?" asked one of the soldiers.

"No," Dante answered. "The _Leopold_ is in stealth mode for the duration of this operation."

"But why?" the marine asked. "I mean, out here we-"

"We take the ship's Possum over," Dante continued. "And enter the _Vagabond_ through its port-side airlock. After that, Bravo Team will make their way to the bridge and secure the ship, along with downloading its travel log." He met the eyes of Bravo Team's leader – a Sergeant Anzetori. "That data is at black-level, eyes only, and is to be transmitted to my PTD immediately upon retrieval."

"I thought you said no transmissions," she murmured.

"Internals are fine." Dante said. He faced Sergeant de Loire. "Alpha Team will follow me to the storage bay."

"Search and rescue," she murmured.

"If you want to call it that."

The sergeant didn't respond, and Dante reflected on the final difference between himself and Wilkins. Wilkins had stayed behind on the _Alfred_ , playing the role a good general should. He'd be going with these soldiers himself.

"Any questions?"

There were none, much to his satisfaction. They knew he was an Operative. Knew that he didn't officially exist. None of them would have comradery with him, or jump on the (possibly literal) grenade for him if the moment called for him. They were tight-knit marines that looked after each other and all that.

"Good. We launch in ten."

And Dante was fine with that. He didn't care about them either.

* * *

With a 'clunk', the _Possum_ -class inter-ship entry vehicle docked with the _Vagabond_ 's airlock. Twenty marines and one Operative got to their feet, each lined up in their appropriate squad. With a nod, Dante nodded to Alpha Team's point man, who spun the hatch open. And nineteen rifles were raised, torches on, to peer into the gloom that waited them.

"Alpha Team, move in," Dante said.

"Yes Captain."

His adopted rank. Well, that was a good start, he supposed. He watched as Alpha Team moved through the gloom. Like every man and woman here, they were equipped with vacuum armour – maximum manageability and body protection while also carrying an air supply. Space was the most dangerous environment known to Man, and asphyxiation could kill quicker than bullets, but that didn't stop people in the 'Verse from trying to give the finger to the Black.

"Section secured. No contacts."

"Good. Bravo Team, with me."

Dante led the remaining marines through the corridor. They moved slowly, rifles raised, their mag-boots clanking against the ship's floor. Steam drifted through the air, dancing through beams of light generated by flickering bulbs. The _Vagabond_ was an old ship, and its drab interior showed it.

They reached the T-junction and Dante walked over to Alpha Team's engineer – a Corporal Santi. She looked at a terminal mounted on her right arm-plate.

"Atmosphere's intact," she said. "So's the ship's gravity field."

"Alright," said de Loire. "Mag-boots off. Helmets stay on."

Dante let her take charge – he didn't disagree with the assessment. But he'd give the next set of orders.

"Alright," he said. "We move out as planned. Bravo Team, bridge. Alpha Team, storage. Regular checks. Report anything suspicious, call in. And remember – internal transmissions only."

A chorus of affirmations came over the radio waves. Hardly the "ooh-rahs" that the marines were known for. Still, Dante didn't need them. Or want them.

"Move out."

The two teams began moving in their respective directions. Dante let Alpha Team move ahead, moving slowly but thoroughly. Checking every corner. And finding nothing.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"All clear."

And they kept moving, following the route that Santi gave them. Still making their way to the storage bay.

"Hey."

Dante glanced at de Loire, her face like a ghost as the lights within her helmet illuminated it.

"Tell me," she said. "How many people do you think were on this ship?"

"According to its manifest at its time of departure, one-hundred and twenty five," Dante answered.

"Oh," said de Loire. "It's just…well…"

"Where are they?" Dante asked.

She nodded.

"I'm wondering the same thing."

The marines kept moving, their rifle and suit lights the only sources of illumination. Dante put a hand to his pistol – this was wrong. Very wrong.

"Found something."

So wrong that he quickly hurried to the front of the team. He followed the rifle light of what his suit's HUD identified as Private Hale. Pointed on a door that had been wedged open.

"Blood," the private said.

Dante looked at the sight – yes, it was blood. A bloody handprint, blood on the walls, and a smear of blood that went through the door's gap.

"Someone was dragged," de Loire murmured. "Took shelter, door forced open…must have closed it on another poor sod." She let out a breath. "Wo de tian, a."

Dante made his way into the room on the other side – crew quarters, or rather, what remained of them. A single bunk, a single desk, everything had been ransacked. And more blood everywhere.

"Fuck this," de Loire said. "Where are they? Where the gorram _fuck_ is the crew? What happened here?"

"I don't know Sergeant."

"Bullshit," she hissed. She grabbed his arm, and stared into his face. "I know you know. So tell me – what are we up against. Is it Browncoats? Pirates? Terrorists?"

"Sergeant-"

"Don't," she whispered. She let go, leaning against the corridor wall. "Don't screw with me."

"Bravo Team to Alpha Leader, come in Alpha Leader."

Dante took the radio call – "Alpha Leader here. Report."

"It's…" He heard Anzetori trail off. "We're at junction A-eight. And…well…"

"Out with it Sergeant."

"It's blood," he said. "Lots of it."

Dante glanced at de Loire, and the other marines present – this was an open channel. Frowning, he let Bravo Leader continue to talk.

"No bodies though," he said. "There's some kind of barricade here. Lots of shell casings too."

"But no bodies," Dante reiterated.

"No Sir," Anzetori said, and Dante could hear the unease in his voice. "None."

"Alright," Dante said. "Continue moving to the bridge. And stay in contact."

"Si. Bravo, out."

Dante remained silent, biting his lip. The marines stood around him, all on edge.

"Move out," he said.

Silently, they obeyed. Silently, de Loire followed. And silently, Dante grabbed her arm.

"Keep this straight," he said. "This mission is classified. You'll never speak of it unless I say so, you'll never write a report on it unless I say so, you'll never write your memoirs on it unless I say so."

de Loire glared at him. "Your point?"

"Don't question me," Dante said. "Not now. And not in front of your squad."

"You want their trust?" she asked. "Is that it?"

"I want them to do their job. Doing it depends on their ability to follow orders. And if they start questioning those orders-"

"Buhn dahn," she hissed. "They're been questioning them from the start. You've told us nothing. So why the hell should we care about what you have to say?"

"Because you're a soldier. You follow orders. And it shouldn't matter who gives them."

"Well it does," de Loire said, breaking free of his grasp and holstering her rifle. "It matters a lot."

Dante watched her walk off. He remembered the SAS – orders had come down from God-knew where, given God-knew when, to do things that God, if he existed, wouldn't approve of at all.

But God didn't exist, he reminded himself. And if he was wrong about that, he certainly wasn't finding Him here. Not here, so deep in this depravity. In this darkness.

Darkness that he moved through after Alpha Team.

* * *

"Clear."

"Fireteam One, move in. Fireteam Two, on me."

With silent hand movements, the first half of Alpha Team entered the storage bay. Three seconds later, Dante led the second half behind them. Quickly and efficiently, the marines fanned out, covering their angles. And Dante looked at the sight before him – shipping containers everywhere, the type one would find on a space hauler, or even a terrestrial ocean vessel one of the central planets. The _Vagabond_ had come fully loaded.

 _For all the good that did them._

"Santi," Dante said. "Give me a temperature reading."

"Hold on," the corporal said. A second later, she answered. "Minus five."

"Huh," de Loire said, walking over as well. "So this _is_ a freezer unit?"

"No," Dante said. "Freezers operate in temperatures below twenty."

"Oh. So…what then?"

"What then?" Dante asked. "I…"

He trailed off. There was something red on one of the marines' helmets.

"Captain?"

He walked over to the marine – a Private Castle.

"Sir?" he asked.

Dante put out his gloved finger onto the man's helmet. Drawing it back, he looked at the substance on his glove.

"Blood," he murmured.

de Loire walked over. "Captain, if this…"

She fell silent. Her gaze had come to her right arm, and Dante could see why – another drop of blood.

"Where did-"

Dante looked upwards. And felt-

"Oh my God," de Loire whispered.

God wasn't here. If anything, this was Hell.

Bodies. Dozens of them. Strung up and hanging from the ceiling, their clothes in tatters. Bodies of men, women, and children. Hanging there like cattle in a slaughterhouse. Their skin stripped from their bodies, leaving nothing but muscle and bone.

"This…" de Loire whispered. Dante glanced around – the marines were abandoning their positions, instead looking upwards at the grizzly sight. "This…this isn't…"

"Slaughter," Dante murmured. He glanced at the sergeant. "Call it what it is."

Behind her helmet, she could see her swallow. He could also see a marine taking off his helmet and throwing up onto the floor.

"So then," he said. "Now we know what happened to the crew. Or some of them at least. And why we haven't found any bodies."

"This can't be the whole crew," de Loire whispered. "There were over a hundred. Where did they go, huh?" She punched him in the arm. "Where are they?!"

"Shut up," he hissed.

"Don't tell me to-"

"These people were left for us to find," he whispered. "Hung up, the skinned bodies – every sign of a hunter displaying trophies. So instead of asking what happened to the rest of the crew, ask what happened to the hunters?"

de Loire didn't answer. And Dante wasn't expecting one. Briskly, he walked over to the leader of Fireteam One.

"You lot, with me," he said. "Thermals suggested three live ones here. We find them, we get them to safety."

Corporal Rabindra nodded. So did his men. Dante looked back at de Loire.

"Fireteam Two, secure our exit."

"The exit?" one of the marines asked. "What about the people? Shouldn't we-"

"Bury them?" Dante asked.

The marine didn't answer.

"I didn't think so." He looked back at Rabindra. "Move."

The marines moved out through the bay. Checking corners, rifles raised – which was good. It gave him time to think.

 _So they were hit. The Reavers do exist._

He glanced at the men beside him, all of them in the dark in more ways than one. How much could this be kept in the dark? One ship, even with a butchered crew, wouldn't necessarily signify anything on its own. But if this pattern continued-

"Here!"

He glanced at the sound of the voice. And gazed at the three people on the ground before him – two male, one female. All of them shivering, all of them bearing the signs of physical assault – torn clothing, blood, bruises…And all of them with an ankle shackled to a single pole on the floor.

"Jesus."

Dante nodded to Private Edward, the team's medic. He knelt down by the survivors. They began to whisper things to him.

"Help…help us…" one of them whispered.

Dante got out his laser pistol, and adjusted the setting of short wavelength, high heat. In this mode it doubled as a cutting tool. And he began the work of cutting the shackles.

"Help…"

"It's alright," he said. "We'll…"

"Alpha Leader, come in."

Anzetori. He got up and handed the pistol to Rabindra. "Keep the finger on the trigger, and don't touch anything else," he said.

"Sir?"

He tapped his helmet. "Got a call."

The marines got on with the job. And Dante stepped aside.

"Alpha Leader here."

"Sir, we're on the bridge," Anzetori said. "It's a mess. Blood, shell casings…"

"But no bodies?"

"No Sir. I-"

"We've found the bodies. Or at least, a good portion of them."

"…I see, Sir."

Dante sighed. "Mourn the dead later Sergeant. Right now, I want those logs."

"Yes Sir. Preparing for delivery."

Dante drew out his PTD. A second later, the words **DOWNLOAD COMPLETE** was displayed.

"Got it," he said. "Good work."

"Thank you Sir."

Dante didn't tell Anzetori that the PTD had just erased the ship's logs through the connection established. Nor did he tell him that the chances of there being anything of worth were remote. But this was an intelligence gathering mission first and foremost. Even if…He looked at the survivors. Even if things had taken an interesting turn.

 _So why are they alive?_

They'd been captured, obviously. But why these three? Why weren't _they_ hanging from the ceiling?

"Alright, alright," said Edward. He gently passed the survivors off to the other marines before walking to Dante. "Hypothermia," he said. "Shock, too."

Dante glanced at the trio. They were mumbling while clutching onto the marines as if they were children.

"Edward, Klaus, take them back to the Leopold," he said. "Rest of you, on-"

 **Clang.**

He stopped. And the survivors did as well.

 **Clang.**

"The hell?" Rabindra asked.

 **Clang.**

"Doors," Dante said. "The containers are opening."

 **Clang.**

"They're here," whispered one of the survivors. "No mercy. No light. No-"

 **Clang. Clang. Clang.**

"Die. Death is here. The Black comes, and-"

"Shut him up," Dante hissed.

Edward went to put a hand on the man's shoulder-

"No!" he screamed. "Not again! Not again!"

"For God's sake, shut him up!"

"No more blood! No bone! No mercy!"

The other man was wailing. The woman was weeping.

"Captain Smith, come in!"

"Shut! Him! Up!"

"Alpha Leader, come in!"

"Help me!"

The man was running. After a gesture from Dante, Edward ran after him.

"Alpha Leader!"

And Dante was faced with both the _Leopold_ and Anzetori trying to contact him. Gritting his teeth, he took the first call.

"Leow, I ordered you-"

"We've got hostiles."

Dante glanced at Rabindra. After a moment's thought, he adjusted the transmission to include all the marines.

"Talk to me. I'm on an open channel."

"Captain Smith, we've got three unidentified vessels bearing down on us. ETA is ten mikes."

"Estimates," Dante said. "Size? Type?"

"Unclear Sir. We're only picking them up because they're operating without core shielding. All the radiation is giving them away."

 **Clang. Clang.**

"How'd they know?" Dante asked. "How did they-"

"Sir, something you should know," Anzetori said. "The ship just sent an automated tight-beam transmission."

"Go shi," Dante cursed.

It was a trap.

 **Clang. Clang.**

"Move," he said. "Bravo Team, fall back. Alpha Team, hold position. We're-"

"Aieee!"

"Edward!"

Edward was screaming. And he could hear gunfire. Lots of it.

"Help me! Help me!"

And slightly less gunfire and more screams.

"Move," he said.

"But Edward-"

Dante grabbed his pistol and drew out his sword. "I said move!"

The marines obeyed. The hands of the two survivors were grabbed, and they ran down through the bay.

"de Loire, we're coming to your position. Hold tight and-"

"Shit!"

Some… _thing_ …had lunged out from the shadows onto Rabindra. The corporal was sent sprawling, and he let go of the female survivor. A thing that was humanoid, and was wielding an axe. About to bring it down and-

Dante shot it. And picked Rabindra up.

"Incoming!"

Gunfire roared as the fireteam opened fire at the things barrelling down on them.

 _Reavers._

The marines didn't know what they were. But they were trained well enough to shoot.

"Move!" Dante yelled.

They ran and fired. Dante grabbed Rabindra's survivor. And kept running as gunfire came their way as well. As Private Sato was hit.

"Shit!"

He glanced back at the private – the bullets hadn't killed her. But as the Reavers jumped on her, as they drove axes and machetes into her flesh, as she screamed…that, was what killed her.

"No!"

He saw Rabindra turn around and fire on full automatic. The Reavers fell. But that didn't save him from the trio that slammed into him from the side.

"Help me!"

And began hacking him apart as well.

Dante stumbled as the woman flung herself into him, babbling. For a moment, he lost his balance. But regained it in time to parry the blow of Reaver's axe, and stick his sword into its chest. It spat at him as the blade pierced its flesh, blood and saliva mingling in an unholy concoction. With a grunt, Dante kicked its chest and let the sword slide free. And grabbed the woman. And kept running.

"They're coming, again," she whispered.

Dante ignored her. He was finally in sight of de Loire and her men. All of them firing. Screaming. Struggling to maintain their ground.

"Friendly!" de Loire yelled.

Dante kept running, and shoved the woman into the arms of Private Cornwall. "Get her back to the ship!"

"Yes Sir!"

He didn't need prompting. Dante glanced at de Loire as she reloaded. As a Reaver lunged at her.

"Shit!"

Dante dived into it, sending them both onto the ground. A second later, he had broken the Reaver's neck. Looking up, he saw that two of the marines had been wounded.

"Gah!"

Make that three, as gunfire tore into Corporal Santi.

"Hold on, I-"

And watched as a Reaver lunged at de Loire, wielding a machete. Watched as it cut into her arm. As she screamed. As it swung again.

 _No._

Dante grabbed his sword and swung it in a wide arc. The Reaver's head was detached from its body a moment later. And de Loire screamed again as she stumbled, blood pouring from a bullet wound in her left leg.

"Fall back!" Dante yelled. "Fall back!"

The surviving marines tried to oblige. But they were cut down, or mowed down, or simply covered in the horde of enemy bodies.

"Take off your helmet," Dante said.

"What?"

"I said take off your gorram helmet!"

Dante didn't wait. He unfastened the restraints, and took de Loire's helmet off. He swung it against a Reaver, sending it sprawling. With his left hand he grabbed de Loire's undershirt by its neck, and began dragging her along the corridor. With his right, he held his pistol. And kept firing.

"Bravo Team, position!" he yelled.

"At the airlock!" Anzetori said.

"Send a fireteam to my location! Now!"

Dante kept backing away down the corridor. de Loire didn't say anything. She just laid there, limply.

"Here," Dante said. He placed the pistol in her right hand. "Take this."

He grabbed her neck with both hands and began moving slightly faster. And ducked as bullets hit the wall above him.  
"Damn it Sergeant, shoot!"

That snapped her out of her daze, and she obliged. The Reavers were barrelling down on them, snarling, yelling, screaming. But in the narrow corridor, they could only move so fast, and bring only a fraction of their numbers to bear. And most importantly, they were unorganized, fighting with each other to get to the front of the pack. But even as de Loire fired, even as Reaver after Reaver fell to the laser bolts, Dante wondered if it was enough.

"Captain Smith, this is Captain Leow."

"I'm busy!" he yelled.

"Captain, enemy vessels will be in firing range in five mikes. At this point in time, we haven't identified any weapons, but-"

"Have they detected you?"

"Nothing indicates that they have. But they're on course to the _Vagabond_."

Dante cursed as a bullet tore into his left arm. Gritting his teeth, he fought the pain, and gave thanks to the makers of body armour. "Captain Leow, I'm declaring Black Contingency."

"Sir, you-"

"Do it! Now!"

Dante fell. Tripped over a door frame. Watched as the Reavers lunged at him. He drew out his sword and impaled it as Leow kept firing. Watched as the others came and-

"Heads down!"

Gunfire tore into the Reavers from Bravo Team. Glancing back, he saw that the airlock was less than ten metres away. He saw Anzetori among them. Felt the sergeant help him to his feet.

"Take de Loire," Dante said. He grabbed the pistol from her hands and let off more laser shots. "Fall-fire formation, on me."

The marines followed him, backing down the last ten metres up to the five metre mark. At that point-"

"Full fallback!"

They retreated into the Possum. Dante saw the survivor there, waiting for him. Looking at him.

"Help me," she whispered.

Dante ignored her and climbed into the cockpit. "Strap in," he said. "We're on full burn."

"Full burn?"

"Black Contingency has been declared," he said. He glanced back at the survivors. "So like I said, strap in."

The Possum didn't generate its own gravity, or have inertial dampeners. So when Dante detached from the ship, as he hit a full burn, the gravity climbed to 2g's within seconds. Pain shot through him. The weight of the universe came down on him.

"Captain Smith, Black Contingency is in effect."

But it was needed. Because on the ship's LIDAR display, he could see the enemy ships coming to the _Vagabond_. Could see one of them turning to pursue him.

 _Come on._

Could see a blip approaching the _Vagabond._

 _Come on!_

Could see less and less as he began to pass out from the stress.

"Come on!"

And saw a bright light consume the Black as a nuclear warhead was detonated. Destroying the _Vagabond_ , the Reaver ships, and everything on them.

 _Did it._

He set the thrusters into cooldown – enough to keep them alive, and not be splattered from the de-acceleration.

 _Think I…did it…_

Felt the gravity drop. Slowly…ever so slowly…

 _Miranda…_

And passed out.

* * *

"You shouldn't be walking Sir."

"I'll take that under advisement. Besides, I'm more interested in the other patients."

"And that's a fact, is it?"

Dante noticed the jab in Doctor Lee's voice. But he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he looked through the glass from that separated Lee's office from the medical ward of the _Leopold_. Looked at de Loire, Cornwall, the lone survivor from the _Vagabond_ , and the rest of Bravo Team – none of whom were injured, but were being kept under observation for the effects of high gravity that Dante had subjected themselves to. Like himself. Even now, he could feel pains in his body, as his muscles and organs had contracted, and blood welled up in his legs. At some point, he'd have to get it looked at. But not yet.

"Well, as far as the burn went, they should be fine," Lee said, looking at his hand terminal. "de Loire's wounds should heal as well without complications."

"And what about the other one?" Dante asked.

Lee snorted. And Dante looked at him.

"What?" he asked.

"The other one," he murmured. He glared at Dante. "You don't even know her name, do you?"

"And you're privy to this information?"

Lee's gaze fell. "No."

"Then cut the shit and start talking about what you do know."

"Well, she's suffering from the effects of hypothermia," Lee said. "And she's in shock. No-one's got a word out from her since we got on board." He consulted the hand terminal again. "Dilated pupils, irregular pulse…oh, and dehydration."

"Well, least that can be solved by-"

"And she's been raped."

Dante looked at Lee. He bit his lip, before asking, "how do you know?"

"She's showing signs of RTS," Lee said."

"RTS?"

"Rape trauma syndrome." He sighed. "Course some of that can be attributed to shock as well, but the vaginal scarring speaks for itself."

"That could be-"

"Don't," Lee snapped. "Don't you _dare_ go there."

Dante remained silent, before turning his gaze back to the medical ward. Lee was right. He wouldn't go there. He'd killed people. Many of whom were his enemies in a war, some of whom were targets of the Alliance. If there was a Hell, he had no doubt he'd go to it. But he'd like to think that it would at least be a circle above the human _filth_ who defiled members of their own species.

"You're right," he murmured. "I shouldn't have said that." He closed his eyes and exhaled. "So, we can add lust to our foes' sins as well."

Lee didn't say anything. Instead, he folded his terminal and walked over to the window, to stand beside the Operative. An uneasy silence lingered between the two men. Only broken as Dante finally spoke.

"So what happens to her?"

"We get her to a shrink," Lee said. "Doctor Caldwell is our ship's psychiatrist, but the sooner we get her off the ship, the better." He looked at Dante. "Unless, of course, you want her on."

"Why would I want that?"

"Answers. Questions. You're here, and apparently so high up in the Alliance's chain of command that you could order Captain Leow to use nuclear weaponry at a moment's notice."

Dante smiled grimly. "I could order a lot more than that."

"So what _are_ your orders?"

He frowned – he didn't know. He was looking at the only survivor of the _Vagabond_. The only one with a firsthand account of a Reaver attack. Beings that, last he heard, didn't even exist. Not officially at least.

"Keep her here," Dante said. Lee opened his mouth but Dante blocked him. "Hate me, if you want. Despise me, curse me, whatever. It's your right, and there's plenty of other people who have every reason to do so anyway. But I can't lose her. Not yet."

Lee opened his mouth, then closed it. With a glare, he took a seat at a terminal and lay back in it, rubbing his eyes.

"Not interrupting anything am I?"

Dante found the source of the voice – Captain Leow. Standing at the door, like a demon at the gates of Hell itself. Wanting to kill him before sending him into the fiery abode.

"No," Lee said. He got up, and walked past her. "You didn't."

Dante watched him leave. And turned his gaze to Leow. She opened her mouth to speak.

"Yes, I know," he said, beating her to it. "Eight marines dead. Two more injured. Rest of them hospitalized. And thanks to a _Kublai_ -class nuclear warhead, we can't even retrieve the bodies of the fallen."

Leow laughed bitterly, and folded her arms. "Is that all?"

"No," said Dante. He took a seat in the chair Lee had previously occupied. "I'm recommending you, and all your men for the Platinum Star. Posthumously, in some cases."

Leow opened her mouth. "That…I mean…"

"Hate me," Dante said. "Eight men are dead, I've usurped your command, and you only have my word for it that it's for a better tomorrow. But I know valour under fire when I see it."

Leow straightened herself. She seemed to be unable to decide whether to say "thank you" or "screw you." Dante supposed silence was the best response he could have hoped for.

He made his way over to the sink to pour himself some water. There was the unspoken issue as well – he hadn't killed those men, the Reavers had. And even if the word "Reaver" was yet unknown to Leow, she had to be aware of the implications – a trap had been set. People left alive, almost certainly as bait, and with a deadman switch for the transmission. A sophisticated trap set by savages whose only motive was to kill them. He took a sip. Psychopathy and genius. As history had so often shown, a dangerous combination.

"By the way," Leow said, breaking the silence. "A transmission came in for you. Eyes only. Looks like the Cortex message I sent to Londinium got forwarded to someone who actually cares about you."

Dante drew out his PTD – it was linked to his quarters' terminal. Sure enough, there was a transmission – text only. And sure enough, it was ordering him to divert.

"People don't care about me," Dante murmured. He finished the water and looked up at Leow. "But I'm afraid we're going to have to be together for awhile longer."

"Figures."

"But not as long as you think," he said. He pocketed the PTD. "And besides, you're going to be one of the few people in the 'Verse to see _Argo_. Very nice place."

"Argo? Is that a planet?"

"No. It's a space station. And one that isn't too far away from here, relatively speaking." Dante smiled. "So, if you excuse me, I have to give your navigator some coordinates."

He began heading for the bridge. He didn't check to see if Leow was following him. If his assessment of her was correct, she'd spend time by her crew's side before following him. If she followed him at all. And he couldn't blame her if she didn't.

Karima Leow was a good woman.

And, diverting the ship and keeping the sole survivor of the _Vagabond_ onboard, likely prolonging her torment, he certainly couldn't call himself a good man.

He himself was not without sin.

* * *

In Greek mythology, the _Argo_ was a ship that had carried Jason and the Argonauts in their quest to find the Golden Fleece. It was a quest that had landed them in the annals of Greek myth, to where now, in the 26th century, their deeds were still remembered. They were heroes, and lauded for it.

 _Argo Station_ , on the other hand, was a bolide that existed in the Oort cloud of the Georgia system. A bolide that was home to an Alliance signals intelligence base that had listened in on Independent transmissions during the Unification War. Now, much of its function remained the same, albeit applied to smugglers and pirates rather than rebels. Equipped with its own gravity field, four hangers large enough to house a corvette each, and painted black to reduce visibility for any enemy attackers, _Argo_ 's journey was eternal. It would remain in orbit of Georgia for billions of years, provided it wasn't vaporized first. And standing in an office whose window out over the CIC within the centre of the asteroid, Dante had no reason to suspect that it would.

But he didn't care about that right now. Instead, he and his counterpart were watching a videorecording on the office's flatscreen. In one hand, Dante sipped at a glass of water, bearing the gritty taste that came from the comet ice it had been recycled from. And in the other, he held nothing. Only flexing his fingers as he watched a recording of the interview of the sole survivor of the _Vagabond_.

"I…they did…"

Her name was Nyone Simretu. Born on Valentine, September 2, 2481. Immigrated to Rubicon with Timia and Monroe Simretu in 2487. Both parents deceased in a car accident that occurred in 2501. Various short-term jobs that went nowhere, she'd boarded the _Vagabond_ in the hopes of a new life, and ended up in the FUBAR that he'd saved her from.

"They spared us! I don't know why! They…" She hiccupped. "They turned down the temperature of the storage bay. Like…like it was a slaughterhouse. Like we were just meat! They kept me alive, as…bait, maybe? I…" She hiccupped. "Oh God…"

"I understand."

"No! You don't understand! You can't possibly fucking understand how…they made me watch! Dobson, Tony…they made us watch! They…the others screamed! God, I can still hear them! I…I can still see…"

Dante watched her break down, as her tears became sobs, and the sobs became howls of grief that ran as deep as the human soul. It was a recording of an evaluation by _Argo_ 's shrink, Dr. Don Tuesday. A good man, by most accounts. But not only was he dealing with a survivor of rape and torture, but rape and torture at the hands of Reavers. So as he watched her sob, as he watched Tuesday sigh and lean back in his chair, Dante wished he was there. To offer comfort, or…anything. She wouldn't have wanted it. And he had taken more lives than her tormenters. But still, at the least, he was human. He could aspire to a world without sin. The Reavers though…They revelled in it.

"I think that's enough for now." The recording was shut off, and light returned to the office. "Think we've spent too long in the dark."

 _You don't know the half of it._

The voice was of his counterpart. Another Operative, and the one that his superiors on Londinium had ordered him to report to. Officially, _Argo Station_ was commanded by Rear Admiral Ender Locker. Unofficially, _Argo Station_ was now in their hands. His own, and the Operative opposite the office's desk. A female Operative who went by the name of Kalista.

"So," she began, looking over a binder containing Dante's report. "I think it's safe to say that the Reavers actually exist."

"Reavers," Dante said. "So that's what we're sticking with?"

She looked up at him. "You object?"

"No. But as I understood, the Reavers don't officially exist. And that there's a 'we' calling them anything…well, no secret can be kept forever."

"Officially, we don't exist either. Nor does this station for that matter." She returned her gaze to the report. "But as you and other Operatives have confirmed, the Reavers now fall into that black hole of 'exists, but not really.'"

Dante remained silent and took a seat as well. Reavers. He was one of the few people who'd encountered those monsters, and among the fewer who could discuss them openly with all the available information at his disposal.

"We should have seen the signs," he said. "They were there all along."

"Really?" Kalista murmured.

"The _Endeavour_ in 2512," he said, remembering the news report he'd watched on _Sentinel_.

"I don't recall-"

"The _Magellan_ , in 2513," Dante continued, remembering the dinner with Salim, how Whittaker had mentioned it. "And other ships. All in the region of Blue Sun."

"That doesn't necessarily mean-"

"You know the truth, don't you?"

After a moment, Kalista murmured, "intelligence indicates that the Reavers are either operating in the system, or out in the Black beyond. This has been further corroborated in that so far, only Blue Sun planets have suffered terrestrial raids."

"And what is the Alliance doing?"

She remained silent, and kept reading the report. And Dante knew not to press the issue. They were both Operatives. Both were technically of equal rank. But he'd heard about Kalista. He'd been humbled by the likes of Riggs and Denon, but he knew them well enough to understand their limits. Kalista, however, was a legend among the Operatives. A shadow who surpassed them all. Some even said that she wasn't an Operative at all, but from an even more secretive program.

"The ship's logs you recovered," she murmured. "You had enough faith in Sergeant Anzetori to not take a peek, I take it?"  
"I trusted him to do his job. He's a soldier in naval intelligence. Dirty secrets are part of his work."

"Like so many of us." Kalista smiled as she brushed aside some of her black hair. It was unnerving, as if the hair wasn't real – a wig, maybe? What was there to hide?

"Well, it doesn't matter. Here's all the logs have to say."

She pressed a button on the nearby remote. And Dante found himself reading the last entry of the _Vagabond_.

 **UNDER ATTACK BY UNIDENTIFIED CRAFT. BORDERING OCCURRING. SHIP DISABLED BY ION BEAM. DISTRESS SIGNAL SENT. COUNTERMEASURES IN PLACE. ATTACKERS HAVE NOT MADE ANY DEMANDS OR RESPONDED TO HAILS. THEY**

The text faded. And Dante returned his gaze to Kalista. She was smiling eerily.

"Quite punctual, whoever wrote that. I imagine the circumstances would have been…hectic."

"You have no idea."

"Actually, based on the interview of Miss Simretu and the survivors of your expedition, I do." Kalista closed the folder. "The Platinum Star. A tad generous, don't you think?"

"I know valour when I see it."

"Or you're just guilty that so many died." She chuckled again. "Sturges. Hera. Shall we add the _Vagabond_ to that list?"

Dante slammed his fists down on the table. And Kalista just sat there. Still smiling.

"Hit a nerve, did I?" she asked.

"No," Dante lied, unclenching his hands. "It's just…" He sighed. "Someone once told me that getting people killed was a bit of a theme for me."

"And I agree. But as an Operative, that isn't an issue. Though on the other hand…" She smiled. Dante Lodovico. You're still a soldier, aren't you?"

Dante remained silent. Something was wrong. Off. Something that went beyond a debriefing. But what that was, he couldn't say.

"So what of the Reavers?" he asked. "Assuming they're operating out of Blue Sun, a naval expedition might be prudent."

So for now, he'd play the game. And try and change the subject as he did so.

"No," Kalista said. "Like I said, the Reavers don't officially exist."

"Tell that to the crew of the _Vagabond_."

"The dead don't talk, Lodovico, and they can't hear the living. Especially when they've been atomized by a _Kublai_ -class nuclear warhead."

"I stand by my decision."

"And you made the right one."

Praise. That was new. "So why the hush-up?" he asked.

"Like I said, the Reavers don't-"

Dante rose to his feet and grabbed the controller and pressed another button. It showed a picture of a screaming man. Not that you'd know it at first, considering that he'd sewn the flesh of a female into his own. And that he was bearing his teeth, and wielding an axe, and was standing in front of a pile of corpses.

"That was taken from one of our Operatives on the remains of the _Vespucci_ ," Dante said. "Same tactics, same engagement. That, is a Reaver. And that… _thing_ , exists."

Kalista still sat there. And still smiled.

"So tell me," Dante said. "Why hide this? They're human, insane as they are. They pilot starships. They fire guns. And they bleed. So who's afraid of them?"

"That's not my place to ask. And it's not yours either."

Dante glared at her. "Maybe not. But it's our duty to-"

"Sit down, Lodovico."

Slowly, he obliged. And Kalista's smile faded.

 _Is this a test?_ He wondered.

"Yes, this is a test."

Dante's heart skipped a beat. She couldn't…no, simply pre-emption. That was all.

"Lodovico, as you've gathered, this meeting goes beyond the Reavers." She drew out a hand-holo and pressed the button. Before him was his own profile and old self, as an SAS member. Younger, softer, more naive. Less hard around the jaw. But still him. Pressing another button, Kalista activated his service record. Not just with the SAS, but as an Operative as well. Hera, Pelorum, Lazarus, Moab…one successful operation after the other.

"A proud history," Kalista continued. "One that few will ever know of."

"I'm fine with that," Dante said.

"Are you?" Kalista asked. "Are you really?"

Dante didn't answer.

"Lodovico, make no mistake – you are, without a doubt, an asset to the Alliance. But every asset needs…maintenance, shall we say?"

"Is this a psych eval?"

"I know that you still regard yourself as Dante Lodovico, and you use it as your de facto name in the company of other Operatives."

"You can't possibly know how I consider-"

"As this meeting has showed, you have questioned the decision of the Alliance to regard the Reavers as a non-entity."

"What are you-"

"And your actions on the _Vagabond_ , while commendable, have shown over-attachment to your fellow man."

"Fellow soldiers."

"No, Lodovico. Not fellow soldiers. Fellow humans." Kalista glared at him. "You stopped being a soldier after the Unification War. You're not a soldier, and you'll never be a soldier again." Her eyes flashed with rage and…something else. Something more. "So stop whatever little game you're playing at, and start acting like an Operative."

"Hera," Dante said. "Pelorum. Lazarus. My record-"

"All successful operations," Kalista interrupted. "As Agent Patrick Scott said to me, you have a knack for killing."

"Patrick?" Dante asked. "You mean Riggs?"

"One of many names," Kalista said. She sighed. "Patrick is dead." Dante's face fell, before she continued. "Operation on New Kashmir that went south. Apparently, there's some Browncoats out there who want to fight the same war."

Dante remained silent. Riggs. Dead. He could barely believe it. He wasn't sure if he could call the man a friend. But he was still the man who'd made him an Operative. Who'd given him the chance to be more than he was. To make a better universe. One without sin. He…would miss him.

"And you're like them Lodovico," Kallista continued. "You're still fighting the same war. Still playing the same game."

"The Unification War is over," Dante said. "I-"

But Kallista wasn't interested in that. Instead, she pressed another button. And the hologram imaged to show floating text. Eyes widening, Dante read it.

 **Search – "Miranda Atkinson"**

 **430,000,000 results**

 **Filter/Alliance secure network, Operative**

 **Working…**

 **Identification Code?**

… **Code Accepted. Operative access granted**

 **Miranda Atkinson, Filter/Sentinel, 2511-2512**

 **Working…**

… **No results**

 **Search – "Miranda Atkinson"**

 **Filter/Londinium, Filter/IAV Wu Cheng'en, Filter/Glamorgan Spaceport, Filter/05/06/2512**

… **No results**

" **Esc"**

"Wuh de ma," he whispered.

"God won't help you," Kalista said. "And he won't help you find Miranda Atkinson. Especially when you use your resources to feed your cock."

Dante rose to his feet. And this time, so did Kalista.

"Lodovico, this has gone on long enough. We've indulged you, let you play your games-"

"You have no right! This is my position, my prerogative-"

"I have every right!" she yelled, and Dante stumbled back. "Listen to me Lodovico. She doesn't love you. She never did, never will, and you don't even love her either."

"Go to Hell."

"Maybe in time, but not before you start thinking with your head and not with your-"

Dante reached for his sword. He grabbed its hilt. But…he…

 _I can't move._

His thoughts were true. He was frozen in place. Only his head could move. Enough to see Kalista's eyes…burn. That was the only word that came to mind as she locked her eyes with his. And…he could see.

" _Agent Athena."_

It was Kalista talking.

" _Agent Calisto."_

Talking to-

"No."

 _Watch, Lodovico._

Miranda. On Londinium. Wearing the same clothes that she'd been wearing when they'd landed.

" _Assessment."_

" _Agent Lodovico passed the test. I offered to leave with him, but he refused."_

" _Will he regret that decision?"_

 _No,_ Dante thought. _No. Please…_

" _Perhaps. But he didn't love me. The psych test Denon put him through proved that."_

Dante screamed and cursed in the confines of his mind. Demons clawed away at him. Angels cast judgement. And all of Purgatory rose to consume his flesh.

" _And you?"_

 _Miranda, or Agent Athena, laughed. "You know my role, Calisto. We're the bait. Get someone who matches the trainee's ideals of beauty and personality, and be Eden's apple. So I was Lodovico's ideal girl. What, you think that true love conquers all?"_

" _Playing the role for a year can wear down on you."_

" _Well, whatever. Lodovico's an Operative now. Just like both of us. He'll do his thing, I'll do mine, and hopefully he won't give me a second thought." She snorted. "God knows I won't give him one."_

Dante exhaled and fell forward, using the desk to steady his fall. He could move again. Enough to put his face in his hands. Enough to feel the tears.

"She never loved you."

Kalista spoke. Without contempt, or pity, or anything. She just spoke. Plain, simple, horrible words.

"As I hope I've demonstrated, Miranda Atkinson was a pseudonym for one of our agents. All Operatives go through the same process, with the gender matched to their sexual preference. Some fail, actually, whether it be on Londinium, or succumbing to desire on _Sentinel_ itself."

"She…she told me…"

"Many things, I'm sure. No doubt she included the false backstory about Bernadette."

Dante fought back the tears. He couldn't remember the last time he cried. Maybe when his mother had died, but since then…

 _But I…I thought…_

"You're an odd one, Lodovico," Kallista said. "Patrick and myself…we thought you'd grow out of it. Not regress and start searching for her." She sighed, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good Operative. Maybe you can be a great one. But that won't happen as long as you pine for idols."

He looked up at her, fighting back the tears. What he'd seen…it was true. He could feel it. His mind felt it, and his heart…felt it even more. He slumped down in the chair. And watched Kalista pack the folder and holo.

"How did you do that?" he whispered.

"Hmm?" She barely glanced at him.

"That vision," he whispered. "How did you show me that? How did you stop my movement?"

"Simple. I'm psychic."

Dante stared at her. "Psychic?" He whispered. "That…that's science fiction? You…I mean…"

"Don't worry, you're cleared for this information," she said. She let out a smile. "Yes, I'm psychic. I'm the one who constructs the subconscious tests on _Sentinel_ , for one thing. And a psychic…well, telepathy, telekinesis. Both have their uses."

"That's…that's not…"

"Possible?" She laughed. "Like I said, don't worry. You have clearance for this information. You can even look up the Alliance Academy if you want. Or, as it's designated, Psi-Zero."

Dante was barely listening. Psychics existing. That…he'd heard of such powers, both fictionally and theoretically, but for this to actually exist? And there were others? This could change everything. Could explain why Kalista could push herself harder and faster than any other Operative, or even prove that she wasn't an Operative at all. And what of the dream. Had Kalista been on _Sentinel?_ Had she been the one to create that dream? Denon had said that the dreamscape was a recent invention, but-

 _He lied._

He looked up at Kalista. She was looking at him blankly. But her words. They were in his mind.

 _The same lie he tells every trainee. The same lie he told the woman you knew as Miranda Atkinson. The same lie he told the one you called Sergeant Riggs. The same lie that will be told to Inductee Spencer in two weeks' time._

Dante remained silent. The silence itself was deafening.

 _Stick to what you're good at. You believe in a world without sin. You've performed spectacularly in that regard, even for your failings._ Her eyes flashed . _I know you, Agent Lodovico. Since the moment you stepped on board_ Sentinel _, and at the dreamscape as well. And I know that your sin is lust._

Dante didn't answer. Lust. Not love. The distinction screamed at him.

 _So fight. Fight for your world without sin. But that will never happen as long as you sin yourself._

The words were true. They had always been true. And he spoke, softly, "what now?"

"Whatever you want," Kalista said. This time, vocally, much to his gratitude. "We've said all we need to say, and-"

"I want to return to _Sentinel_." His eyes bored into her. "To go back. Make it right. Physically. Mentally. I-"

"You want a mind wipe."

Telepathy. He was hating it already.

"A mind wipe," Kallista repeated. "SOP for all Operatives as of 2513." She seemed perturbed. "Usually robbing the subject of all memories of their former lives, as a means to increase efficiency. Voluntary, full disclosure, a means of creating the ultimate soldier." She swallowed. "And you want that."

"Yes," Dante said. "What's there to remember? My family is dead. I spent the last four years pining over a lie." He sighed. "There's no place for me in any of that. I want to be better. Because after the events of the past few days…I think I _need_ to be better."

"Why?"

"Because people died. Because Riggs was right – people always die around me. And I've wasted years pining after a lie. I would see both corrected."

Kallista looked uneasy, tapping a finger on the table. "It would be possible," she murmured. "To perform the mind wipe. It would require fine tuning of other memories considering your visit to Hera, and little sojourn into the Cortex."

"I've sinned," Dante said. "Like the Reavers, my sin was lust. And I would be expunged of its taint."

Slowly, Kallista nodded. Slowly, a sad smile came to her lips. "Patrick was right about you," she murmured.

Praise, or damnation? He didn't know. But he was sure to have been damned either way.

After all he had seen.

After all he had done.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _This chapter was quite hard to get through for numerous reasons. The first being that admittedly, it's harping on_ Bushwacked _. Not exactly the same Reaver tactic admittedly, but close enough. Plus, it falls into the "soldiers enter close quarters, shit happens" trope that_ Aliens _popularized within sci-fi. Oh, and I had to deal with rape in what I hope was sensitive enough to the topic. Seriously, the number of fics I've seen that use rape as their basis on this site...ugh._

 _The last section also had its own hurdles. Those of you who've read_ Leaves on the Wind _will recognise Kallista, a character that I quite dislike for various reasons (e.g. she's a Mary Sue). That said, I thought it important to at least include her in the story to give some kind of basis why the Operative acts the way he does around her (e.g. just giving up) in the comic._

 _Also, three versions of the last section of this chapter exist, and it came from the novelization of_ Serenity _. After writing the original version, and when I re-read the novelization, it was revealed that the Operative had no memories of his former life, and that the implication was those memories had been removed at the start of his training. Basically, I had five chapters worth of material that were incompatible with canon. As such, I introduced the memory wipe here, with later chapters providing the wriggle room. Maybe I was being lazy, but I didn't want to scrap the whole story, nor did I want to defy canon except in one key moment in later chapters. As such, I wrote two alternate versions. The first was when Kallista and Denon forced the change, the second was when the Operative chose a mind wipe (taking some influence from Nova of the_ StarCraft _universe here - hey, it borrows from_ Firefly _anyway). I chose the second, because ultimately it felt closer to my original intent concerning character development._

 _Anyway, chapter done. After this, we enter BDM territory._


	7. Pride

_The darkest places in Hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis._ _The sad souls of those who lived without blame and without praise._

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Chapter 6: Pride**

" _Beautiful, aren't they?"_

 _He murmured agreement – he'd never been one for stargazing. At home, light pollution prevented any stars bar those of the 'Verse being seen. Out here, on_ Sentinel _, a cluster of stars illuminated the void. But they were small dots on an empty canvass. Not something he could fall in love with. Not when love felt a lot closer to home right now._

" _Do you think we can see Sol from here, Dante?" she asked, looking at him._

" _Possibly. It's forty light years away. Our own backyard in the greater scheme of things."_

" _Hmm." She entwined her arm with his. "People say Blue Sun is a long way away. But out here…" She chuckled. "Sorry. I'm sounding like a love-struck puppy."_

" _I don't mind." He smiled at her. "I love dogs."_

 _She blinked at him._

" _Actually, I mean…" He fought the urge to slap himself on the forehead. And failed to stop the sad smile that came to his lips. "What I mean to say is…thank you."_

" _For what?"_

 _The smile became less sad as he looked at her. Her skin, her eyes, her hair and lips. The way she smiled at him in turn. The way just being near her made his body ache. The way he felt even when he thought about her. How he-_

" _ **Sir, you have a message."**_

" _Thank you," he repeated. "For everything."_

 _He put an arm over her shoulder. Drawing her close to him. Feeling his chest heave as hers lay against his._

" _ **Sir?"**_

 _As she lay her head on his shoulder. As she whispered, "you're welcome."_

 _As his body ached more than any wound or misstep he had suffered. As the bullet missed his head, and entered his heart. Breaking it, for what he had now. And how it could never last._

" _ **Sir, are you awake?"**_

 _As they drew closer as well. As they turned from the light of the stars. As their own light grew, as they embraced. Their bodies nova. The universe in orbit. Bodies and minds as one, as spirits shone bright. Out of the mind of anything else._

" _ **Sir?"**_

 _And then he woke up._

* * *

"Sir!"

With a grunt, the Operative awoke from slumber's embrace. His face was to his pillow, his bare back pointing up to the roof of his cabin, his room's only source of illumination being the glow of his desk chrono – **02:22** , shipboard time. The only sound the hum of the engines. And the voice of Ensign Carmelito over his room's comm. device.

"Sir, I'm sorry to wake you, but-"

With another grunt, the Operative swung his arm over and hit the "acknowledge" button. "I'm here," he murmured, still keeping his eyes closed.

"Message from Alliance High Command Sir. Real-time. Eyes only."

The Operative grunted again. Eyes only. Pathetic. He was the commander of the IAV _Alfred_ – once the command ship of General Wilkins, officially retired in 2516, unofficially transferred to his personal command a few months prior. There wasn't a single man or woman on the vessel who he couldn't trust with an "eyes only" briefing.

"Patch it through to CIC. Inform HIGHCOM that I'll be there in five."

But clearly the Alliance felt otherwise.

"Yes Sir. Out."

The radio crackled off and the Operative continued to lie on his bed. Sleep. His mind wanted it, his body wanted it, his spirit, if such a thing existed, wanted it. But despite that, he swung his legs over to the side of the bed and sat up. If dreams were delusions, he was certainly suffering from them he reflected. As he put on his uniform, he cast his mind back to the dream. To that woman. He'd never seen her before. But there was something familiar about her as well. Like he'd dreamt of her in another 'delusion.' Or had maybe caught her eye when he'd had to blend into a crowd on one of his missions. Or maybe he was just that tired.

 _No rest for the wicked._

He fastened the last buttons of his shirt and walked to the door. With a hiss, it opened.

He'd forgotten about the dream by the time it closed.

* * *

"We lost contact with our contractors above Sturges," said General Mutimbuzi. "A follow-up team identified their remains."

"Cause of death?"

"Grav drive exhaust. You can imagine the results."

"Vividly."

The Operative looked up at the screen display of his contact. A cup of instant coffee had greeted him on the way to CIC, and the general's words had eliminated any remaining desire for sleep. Because while the general hadn't stated as much yet, he knew what was coming – a mission. It was his only reason for existing. Ever since he had become an Operative. Since his memories of his past life had been removed when he departed _Sentinel_ for Londinium. He had no name, no rank, he lived in the moment. And like so many times, the moment called to him.

"This was the third attempt to retrieve the target," the general continued. "The first was from Agent Lawrence Dobson. We lost contact with him after he traced the target to a ship that launched off Persephone eight months ago. The second was a bounty hunter we employed by the name of Jubal Early – he disappeared without a trace as well.

"And your contractors," the Operative said. "What about them?"

"They took over from Dobson and Early left off. They nearly caught up with the target on Ariel." The general scowled. "But life isn't like horseshoes. 'Nearly' doesn't count."

The Operative smirked. 'Nearly' never did.

"And so," Mutimbuzi continued, "their work falls to you. I must warn you, that the nature of this mission is highly confidential, even by your standards. I can only-"

"I accept," the Operative said.

The general nodded. "Transmitting assignment now. Good luck."

The terminal in front of him hummed. A moment later, it showed a profile of "the target" in the form of a still-picture. It showed a young girl – late teens, he estimated. Brown eyes, lanky brown hair…she might have been considered attractive, if not for her gaze. Like she was out of focus, operating on an entirely different wavelength. He frowned – there was something…off, about her, he reflected. It reminded him of autism. Luckily the mission brief on the back was more forthcoming.

 **Name: River Tam**

 **Gender: Female**

 **DOB: 2500/10/19**

 **Social Control #: 149,092,015,121,012**

 _ **Daughter of Regan and Gabriel Tam, born on Osiris. Alpha-level subject at Psi-Zero. Kidnapped from facility by Simon Tam on September 14, 2517.**_

 _ **Extraction: Alpha Priority. Termination position granted, under proviso of large resort. Any harm to subject must be accounted for, under the tenets of Article 11 of the Alliance Asset Extraction Charter, ratified 2499.**_

 _ **Note: Subject possesses telepathic abilities, and telekinetically-augmented physical prowess, augmented through sub-sensory training simulations and brain modification. Genius-level IQ; suspected mental instability (paranoia, psychosis, schizophrenia). Approach with extreme caution.**_

The Operative frowned. A psychic. He'd never hunted a psychic before, and to his knowledge, no one had. Psychics were either two types of people – those like Kalista, and living weapons of death, or, like so many, just plain dead. And the frown deepened as the second photo was printed out. This time depicting a man – black haired, strong jawed, well dressed, radiating confidence that spoke of a strong education and upbringing. The type of person he'd assassinate if they were abusing a position of power. And not the type of person he'd be hunting across the 'Verse. Though as he turned to the back, the brief said otherwise.

 **Name: Simon Tam**

 **Gender: Male**

 **DOB: 2490/11/06**

 **Social Control #: 19,602,319,778,289**

 _ **Son of Regan and Gabriel Tam, born on Osiris. Resident trauma surgeon at St. Archew Hospital, Osiris, after graduating in top 3% of MedAcad. Suspected affiliation with underground rebel group, Freiheits Jetzt ("Freedom Now"). Group suspected of involvement with extraction of River Tam. Last sighted at Evesdown Docks, Persephone. Current whereabouts unknown.**_

 _ **Extraction: Beta Priority. Permission to terminate granted.**_

A bit shorter this time, but the Operative understood what the Alliance wanted. They didn't care if Simon Tam lived or died. But he also understood that his death would be regrettable. And it also stood to reason that he'd still be in the company of his sister. Commendable, in a way. But an enemy of the Alliance. Like his sister, a liability. And unlike his sister, no doubt had plenty of public information available on him.

Which made him raise an eyebrow when he saw the third target be given to him.

* * *

A week later, the Operative was in the archive of Psi-Zero, viewing a holo-record dated September 14, 2517. It was a form of technology where he could enter a 3D simulation of the event as recorded by the security cameras, any blind spots covered by holographic recreations of the surroundings and events. Not that there was any need for that in this case – he watched as River Tam was bound in a dream chair, screaming, courtesy of the injector needles that had been inserted into her cranium to simulate different areas of her brain. An advanced form of dreamscape technology, allowing direct manipulation of the sensory input, and even the thought process itself. All without the need of another psychic.

"She's dreaming," a technician said.

"Nightmare?" asked another.

"Off the charts," said the first one. "Scary monsters."

"Let's amp it up," said the third of the four men. The only actual scientist present. "Delcium eight-drop."

The technicians obliged, and the man turned to look at the fourth individual present in the room, not including River Tam herself. The scientist's name was Dr Philbert Mathias – PhD in psychology, leading theorist on mental stimulation, and one of the chief researchers in the Alliance's psychic program. He looked healthy, confident, and quite at ease in experimenting on a girl who'd come to the Academy at the age of fourteen. And had been experimented on over the three years she'd been here.

"See, most of our best work is done while they're asleep," Mathias said to the inspector – the fourth one in the room, and the only one who hadn't said a word so far. "We can monitor and direct their subconsciousness, implant suggestions…"

Tam convulsed, which caused the inspector's eyes to widen slightly. Smiling gently, Mathias kept talking. "It's a little startling to see, but the results are spectacular. Especially in this case. River Tam is our star pupil."

"I've heard that," the inspector murmured.

The Operative smirked. He wondered what Kalista would say if she were here, after listening to that particular titbit of information. And also wondered what was going through "the inspector's" mind. Or more specifically, the mind of Simon Tam, having assumed the identity of Sean Green; a liaison between the Alliance parliament and the facility, long since confirmed dead at the hands of Freiheits Jetzt. Having to play the cold, unfeeling bureaucrat, while his sister was tortured before him as he fiddled with a small eagle baton, no larger than a paperweight.

"She'll be ideal for defence deployment," Mathias said. "Even with the side effects."

"Tell me about them," Simon murmured.

The Operative smirked again – straight to the point. Admirable.

"Well, obviously she's unstable," Mathias said. The Operative watched the hologram walk over to a flatscreen display of River's brain, the display not having any indication of how damaged her mind was. "The neural stripping gives them heightened cognitive reception, but it does tend to fragment their own reality matrix. It manifests as borderline schizophrenia, which-"

"What use do we have for a psychic if she's insane?"

River began letting out yelps. And Mathias walked over.

"She's not just a psychic," he said. "With the right trigger this girl is a living weapon. Not to mention the security potential of someone who can read minds."

The yelps continued. And Mathias continued.

"She has her lucid periods. We're hoping to improve on the…"

He trailed off. And the Operative put a hand to his chin. This wasn't the first time he'd seen the record. But he wanted to be thorough. And this was the moment when Mathias finally began to catch on. And when he'd committed his greatest error. His greatest sin.

"I'm sorry sir, but I have to ask, is there a reason for this inspection?"

"Am I making you nervous?" Tam asked.

"Key members of parliament have personally observed the subject," Mathias said hurriedly. I was told the Alliance's support for the project was unanimous. The demonstration of her powers-"

"How is she physically?" Tam interrupted.

The Operative observed a change in Mathias's demeanour. It was slight, but still there. He was far more enthusiastic.

"Like nothing we've seen." He looked at his data pad. "All our subjects are conditioned for combat, but River – she's a creature of extraordinary grace."

"Yes," mused Tam. "She always did love to dance."

The Operative watched as Mathias's face shifted again, from confidence to confusion. And then watched it go blank as Tam suddenly knelt down, hit the butt of the baton, and watched as the eagle head went shooting upwards, letting out an energy wave that knocked out all the other men. A highly advanced type of bouncing betty. And it was only because of how low he and River were in the room in comparison to the wave's height from the ground that they were spared its effects.

The Operative watched as Tam tried to get his sister awake, and failed. Walking over to the door as he took off his uniform, he-

"Simon."

Span around to look at his sister. Even having watched her open her eyes and follow her brother, the Operative was impressed with her silence.

"They know you've come."

And her perception, even after recovering from a dose of "scary monsters." Because what neither of the Tams knew was that a silent alarm had been triggered as the Academy's security staff had watched all of this unfold. But they nonetheless made their way out swiftly into the main corridor. As some doctors neared, and Tam ordered his sister to find a hiding place. As the younger Tam climbed onto some lab equipment to the corridor's ceiling, spread out her legs, and supported her weight, clinging onto a sprinkler for additional support.

 _Extraordinary grace._

It wasn't long before the Tams had reached the entrance hatch to one of the Academy's ventilation shafts. A security team arrived, and fired a laser round at the glass door, but couldn't get through. But as they hammered against the door, as the glass began to shatter, that was set to change.

It was all for nought though – the Operative knew how this ended. A ship appeared above the shaft and let down a platform for the Tams to climb onto, in which they both obliged. With the security team coming at them from the side, and a laser grid coming at them from below, they didn't need any motivation. And, as the story always ended, the platform carried them upwards. Away from the lasers. Away from the grunts. Away from-

"Stop." The Operative said. The recording halted.

"Backtrack."

The simulation began running backwards. The lasers receded. The glass's cracks disappeared.

"Stop."

To the casual observer, it was an inconspicuous point in the recording, showing the faces of both the Tams – Simon looking down at his sister, River looking directly into a security camera. But as he stepped out of the simulation into the records room, and looked at the frozen image from the outside, the Operative knew that this was all he needed. He'd seen River Tam in action. And perhaps just as importantly, seen her brother as well.

"Excuse me!" came a voice.

And maybe, for someone, he'd seen too much. Because as he looked to the records room, he saw three men and one woman storming towards him.

"No one is allowed in the records room without my express permission."

The Operative fought back a smile – he didn't know, nor care, who three of these people were. But the fourth was Doctor Philbert Mathias. Eight months older than he'd been in the hologram, now looking as haggard and tired as if eight years had passed instead. He wasn't wearing his lab coat this time, just a simple white shirt and black tie. A more formal match to the Operative's plain blue clothing, hiding his uniform.

"Forgive me," the Operative said as Mathias and his flunkies surrounded him. "But I prefer to see the event alone. Without bias."

"I need to see your clearance," Mathias said indignantly.

"And you are right to insist." The Operative reached for a hand scanner. "I know you've had security problems here."

An automated voice declared that he had authorized and full access. And Mathias's tone turned to one of respect.

"Apologies," he said "An Operative of the parliament will of course have full cooperation."

The Operative glanced at Mathias's flunkies. They didn't look at ease. But they gave him some space at least. And Mathias as well, as he looked at the scanner's display.

"I'm not sure what…I'm not seeing any listing of rank or name."

"I have neither," the Operative said. "Like this facility, I don't exist." He looked back at the hologram. "Let's talk about the Tams."

Mathias paused before he spoke. "I assume you've scanned the status logs."

"River was your greatest success. A prodigy. A phenomenon. Until her brother walked in here and took her from you."

"It's not quite so simple," Mathias said.

"I'm well aware of that."

"There's no way I could of-"

"No, no," the Operative said reassuringly. "Of course. The boy spent his entire fortune developing the contacts needed to infiltrate this place."

Mathias was warming up the blame game, now that it wasn't directed at him. "Gave up a brilliant future in medicine as well," he added. "It's madness."

"Madness?" The Operative smiled, and gestured to the hologram of Simon Tam before walking over to it. "Have you looked at this scan carefully, Doctor? On his face?

He took another look himself. Simon Tam, looking down at his sister in concern as the platform rose. Not at the laser grid, or the security team, or their escape ship. All his attention was on his sibling.

"It's love, in point of fact," the Operative said. "Something a good deal more dangerous."

He looked back at Mathias, the unease on his face as visible as a supernova. Even his goons looked off centre. And the woman at the back, likely his secretary…well, she was hardly relevant right now.

"Why are you here?" Mathias asked softly.

"Because the situation is even less simple then you think." The Operative walked across the room and looked back at Mathias. "Do you know what your sin is, Doctor?"

Mathias tried to speak, but the Operative interrupted him.

"It's pride."

Mathias clearly didn't understand. So on that note, the Operative pressed a button on the nearby console, one that was keyed to a specific section of the recording. Back to where Mathias was informing Tam about his sister. Some very specific things. All eyes turned to the holographic display.

" _Key members of parliament have personally observed the subject," said the hologram. "I was told the Alliance's support-"_

The recording blinked out and was replaced with the still-image of the Tams. And the Operative spoke.

"Key members of parliament," he said slowly. " _Key_. The minds behind every diplomatic, military, and covert operation in the Alliance, and you put them in a room with a psychic."

Finally, Mathias appeared to understand. Finally, he appeared to be aware of his sin.

"She was…she read cards, nothing more."

Even as he tried to hide it. "It's come to our attention that River became much more unstable, more…disturbed after you showed her off to parliament." The Operative took a step towards the doctor. "Did she read something terrible in those cards?"

Quickly, Mathias said, "If there was some classified information that she…she never spoke of it. I don't know what it is!"

"Nor do I. And judging by her deteriorating mental state, I'd say we're both better off. Secrets are not my concern. Keeping them is."

Mathias continued to babble. "Whatever secrets she might have accidentally gleaned...it's probable that she doesn't even know she knows them. That they're buried beneath layers of psychosis."

The Operative rolled his eyes – the man was pathetic. Not that any of his words could have saved him, but he'd hoped that the Alliance's best and brightest would have more backbone. He started walking. "You know, in certain older, civilized cultures, when men failed as entirely as you have, they'd throw themselves on their swords."

He began packing recordings pending to Tam into his briefcase. And Mathias continued to babble.

"Well, unfortunately I forgot to bring a sword to-"

The Operative drew out his blade from the briefcase. The weapon he'd had since training. The weapon he'd used to kill all manner of enemies to the Alliance. Balancing it along his arm, he turned to Mathias. Who, for the first time, was showing actual fear. Even as he tried to hide it.

"I would put that down right now if I were you, before-"

"Would you be killed in your sleep like an ailing pet?"

Mathias nodded to his flunkies. They both moved towards the Operative. In a single swing, the Operative cut the throat of one, and impaled the other. A shame, really. They weren't his targets. But he was fed up with this drivel, and he'd seen all he needed to see. Glancing at Mathias, now running for his life, he frowned – the third target that General Mutimbuzi had given him was trying to escape.

With superhuman speed, the Operative dashed after the doctor, plunging his fingers into his back with just as superhuman strength. The nerve strike, it was called – Mathias screamed as the Operative struck the nerve cluster at the bottom of his back. In an instant, Philbert Mathias was paralysed. Just standing there, unable to move. An instant later, the Operative had taken a crouching position, resting the butt of his sword on the ground, the blade facing upwards. Right up to where Mathias was about to fall. Very soon, the only person left alive in the room would be himself, as the female assistant was rushing for the exit.

"Young miss," the Operative called out, and she glanced at him in terror. "I'll need all the logs on behavioural modification triggers. We'll have to reach out to River Tam and help her to come back to us. No matter how far out Simon has taken her, we can-"

There was the sound of steel meeting flesh, and the Operative glanced to his side. The effects of the paralysis were beginning to wear off as Mathias was able to slightly move his neck so that his eyes met the Operative's. Eyes that showed confusion. Fear. Enough to give the Operative a small sense of pity.

"This is a good death," the Operative said, as Mathias's body made its way down the blade. As the life left his eyes, as his breathing became shallower. "There's no shame in this, in a man's death. A man who's done fine works. We're making a better world. All of them, better worlds."

Mathias's eyes closed. His gasps faded. And the Operative knew his work had been done. The third target of his assignment removed.

 _Better worlds. Worlds without sin._

With a fluid motion the Operative freed his sword and walked back to the hologram, drawing out a cloth to clean his blade. "Young miss, I need you to go to work now," he called out. "I think I may have a long way to travel."

He heard her footsteps carry her away. Soft, submissive footsteps, that told him there'd be no trouble. So as he cleaned the last of the blood off his blade, he returned his attention to his primary target. The one staring at a security camera, and through the hologram, at him. River Tam. The greatest threat to the security and stability of the Alliance.

"Where are you hiding, little girl?" he whispered.

* * *

He got his answer three weeks later.

In order to locate River Tam, he'd needed to get a message out to her, through a delivery system that had a chance of actually working. The solution was to use the one thing seen by more people than anywhere else – advertising. Ads were everywhere across the 'Verse, and wherever Simon might have taken River, it was unlikely that she'd be able to escape the reach of human commercialism. Sooner or later, she'd come across an ad for Fruity Oaty Bars – an obnoxious little energy snack that didn't have any fruit in it whatsoever, but for some reason was enjoyed by people from the Core to the Rim. And whatever River's personal taste was, that didn't mean that she wouldn't glance at an ad for the things.

And glance at an ad she did – in a disreputable bar called the Maidenhead on the planet of Beaumonde. Standing on the bridge of the _Alfred_ , the Operative watched the scene unfold. As River Tam, looking older and more haggard than she had in the hologram, looked up at the bar's flatscreen. As she whispered the word "Miranda."

 _Miranda? As in Shakespeare?_

And began to attack everyone around her.

 _I've heard that name somewhere._

Attack them with impunity.

 _Ideal for defence deployment. A living weapon._ The Operative smirked at the brawl – some tried to fight back, and were knocked out cold by River's blows. Others fled. _Mathias wasn't lying._

There was a grace to how River fought. Even the few blows the patrons got in did nothing to slow her down. She moved faster, hit harder, was aware of her enemy's attacks before her enemies themselves were. And it only ended when she grabbed one of her foes' guns, using it to shoot a man in the shoulder, causing him to collapse. And then pointing it at another target that the security feed he'd tapped into didn't show, towards the bar's entrance. And for some reason, not firing this time.

"Eta kooram nah smech!" a voice over the recording exclaimed.

And then she collapsed unconscious, dropping the gun by her side. And the Operative frowned. The audio feed wasn't perfect, but he could recognise the voice as belonging to that of Simon Tam. And the phrase he'd uttered (Russian that translated into "this is for hens to laugh") was River's personal safe word –the counter-code to the one that he'd implanted into the bar commercial in fact. That the elder Tam and his friends had access to it made this all the more disturbing.

But he couldn't complain. He'd got a fix on River's location. And almost as interestingly, at an individual who appeared to care for her. He watched as a man walked into the security camera's field – big, muscular, strong enough to lift River up into his arms and walk off with the girl. A surprising move, considering that all the bar's other patrons were unconscious by this point in time. So, either he was a stranger with a _very_ strong sense of compassion, or he was familiar with the girl.

"Freeze frame," the Operative said. "Employ facial recognition on male subject. Cross reference all databases."

In a microsecond, the computer had obliged. And a minute after that, the Operative found himself reading a most interesting character profile.

 **Name: Malcolm Reynolds**

 **Gender: Male**

 **DOB: 2468/09/20**

 **Social Control #: 2**

 _ **Son of a rancher, born on the planet Shadow. Bound by law five times: smuggling, tariff dodging, transporting illegal cargo; no convictions.**_

 _ **Captain, Independent Army, 57**_ _ **th**_ _ **Brigade. Volunteer.**_

 _ **Awarded Valour Commendation: Battle of Serenity Valley**_

The Operative looked at the text, then at the moving image of Reynolds in one of his run ins with the law as he stood for a mugshot. He looked irritated, bored, contemptuous – as if the very idea of law and order was beneath him. The Operative glanced back at the text.

 _The Battle of Serenity Valley. Interesting._

He knew of the battle. Everyone did. It had been the bloodiest battle of the Unification War, and the last one as well. The Independents had held the valley for seven weeks, two of them after their high command had surrendered. He hadn't been there of course, but for some reason, every time he saw or heard the words "Serenity Valley" or "Unification War," it stirred a sense of familiarity within him. Systemic of his work, he supposed. A war had been fought long ago. The bloodiest war in the history of the 'Verse. And it was up to men like him to ensure that such a conflict never occurred again.

Which was a prospect men like Malcolm Reynolds likely weren't averse towards. Because there was another interesting titbit in the data before him.

 _ **Captain of**_ **Firefly** _ **-class transport ship**_ **Serenity (2512-present)**

So, not only had Malcolm Reynolds fought in the Battle of Serenity Valley, he'd even named his ship after that bloodbath as well. No wonder the Tams had found shelter with him. No wonder Dobson and those who pursued them had disappeared from the face of the 'Verse. Malcolm Reynolds had every reason to hate the Alliance. What better way to prick it in the paw than to harbour a pair of fugitives?

 _Well, there's plenty of better ways. Like starting a war again._

He made a mental note to send a get in touch with Interpol. If there was a chance Reynolds had met with fellow sympathizers, he wanted to know. But in the short term, he was interested in his immediate companions.

"Computer," he said. "Bring up crew manifest of starship _Serenity_."

The computer obliged. The Operative didn't doubt that a lot of the information was out of date – in the list of names and portraits, there certainly wasn't any mention of the Tams. But he chose the first one anyway and skimmed through the data.

 _First Mate Zoë Washburne, formerly Corporal Zoë Alleyne, also in the 57_ _th_ _. Career army. And wife of the starship's captain, Hogan Washburne._

So – big happy family that was likely harbouring a pair of fugitives among already existing criminals. But how to exploit that? Reynolds was obviously a passionate man, and one without any room for subtlety. He was bound to have some very obvious-

The Operative clicked on the last portrait. A licensed Companion named Inara Serra, who'd rented one of the _Serenity_ 's shuttles for a year, and recently ended that arrangement to teach at the new Companion Training House.

 _Weaknesses._

* * *

A few days later, the Operative was on the surface of Burnet – the second moon of the planet New Canaan; first planet of the Blue Sun system. As he climbed the stone steps that led to the Companion Training House, he reflected on words once spoken – that he had suspected that he would have a long way to travel. Bracing himself against the autumn chill, he concluded that his self of over three weeks prior was just as wise as the man that was here today.

The _Alfred_ in deep orbit of the planet – he'd touched down at the training house's landing pad and walked from there. Taking in the surrounds, and admiring the structure itself – a replica of the Hindu temples found on Earth-That-Was, and found on many other worlds within 'the Verse, as mankind still clung to old idols. He quickened his pace – if he'd ever believed in anything other than Man, he couldn't remember it. God may have been real. But sin was in the here and now. Sin, he would deal with. And that involved making an appointment with Inara Serra, posing as a Mr Henri Pond – an accountant from Red Sun, come all the way out here to find spiritual awakening that may or may not involve the act of sexual intercourse. And Serra, in her benevolence, had taken up his offer. And was standing at the top of the steps he climbed.

And by God, she was beautiful. He'd expected that from the profile he'd obtained from her off the Cortex and the Companion Guild's own database, but none of that did her justice. Her red shawl blew in the wind, covering her body, yet accenting it as well. Lush black hair came down from her head – long, yet not too long. Red lips, and brown eyes that radiated not only beauty, but intelligence as well. A walking goddess. One who had, for reasons unknown, been part of Reynolds's crew for a year.

He stopped walking and saw the smile fade. Saw fear flicker in those eyes of hers. Fear that was founded of course, but she couldn't have known that.

"Mister Pond," she said courteously. "Welcome to Burnet."

He took her hand and kissed it. There was no way she could have known why he was really here.

"How was your trip?"

"Long," he said, letting go of her hand. "But well worth it, now that I behold what journey's end has brought me."

"You flatter me."

He smiled, though silently, he was kicking himself. Some compared the women of the Companions Guild to prostitutes, others to geisha; as they trained in not only lovemaking, but music, philosophy, and even martial arts, his impression leant more to the latter. And in all of that, it wouldn't surprise him if they were trained to read body language. He was here on business other than that of "spiritual awakening." And he couldn't turn down the possibility that just the way he'd moved had given him away.

"So then," he said. "When shall we begin?"

Serra smiled at him. "Soon," she said. She glanced back at the training house – maybe to plan an escape route. "But as you know, few clients visit us here. Most of the girls are not yet ready to serve the needs of body and spirit."

"But I'm not interested in those other girls." He smiled. "I'm interested in you."

"Of course. But as I mentioned, my role here is currently as teacher. So I'm afraid I have to-"

"Cut the bullshit Serra."

In another life, one he'd given up long ago, he would have jumped at the chance to bed this woman. But that life didn't exist. Serra was on to him. So the sooner he cut to the chase, the better.

"Inara Serra," he said. "My understanding is that you were onboard the starship _Serenity_ for a year, and came here mere months ago."

"I…" She composed herself. "Yes, that's true."

"The captain's name is Malcolm Reynolds."

"Whatever you want with Mal, I can't help you."

'Mal.' How quaint. "Actually, I don't particularly care about Reynolds." He took out a picture of River Tam from his pocket. "I'm interested in this girl. I believe that she was on the ship during the same time period you were."

Serra was good. But she couldn't hide that faint flicker of recognition, and more noticeably, concern in her eyes.

"I don't know her," she said. "You have to understand, Mister Pond, that my relationship with Captain Reynolds was only a commercial venture."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. Being a Companion gave his ship a degree of credibility it might otherwise have lacked, and the ship itself allowed me to expand my client base. But we otherwise kept to ourselves." She handed the picture back to him. "If this girl was ever on the ship, I can't say. Numerous passengers came and went without us ever crossing paths."

The Operative's eyes twinkled. Oh yes, she was good. But not that good.

"And now I think you should leave," she said. "I would have been happy to help you under normal circumstances, but this deception-"

"Inara Serra, I know you know this girl. I have circumstantial evidence that you were complicit with a number of illegal ventures carried out by Captain Reynolds that includes heists, illegal salvage, and smuggling. And I know that you've lied to me over the last three minutes." The Operative took a step forward. To her credit, Serra didn't budge.

"You don't have any authority here," she said. "The Companions Guild is a body that is not required to-"

"Carte blanche, Miss Serra." He took her arm and began walking with her, near to where some trainees were playing. Laughing. Existing in innocence. "I also have a platoon of marines who are very far from home, who wouldn't mind some…spiritual awakening."

Serra looked aghast. "If you do anything-"

"So here's what you're going to do. You're going to contact Malcolm Reynolds and get him to come here. You're going to do it convincingly. He's going to arrive, and I'm going to make him see reason. And then I'm going to leave with River Tam, after which you forget that we ever crossed paths."

He tightened his grip on her arm, and she winced. And even more so when he gestured to the girls.

"And if you don't do these things, life here for you and your students is going to become very, _very_ uncomfortable." The grip loosened. "Do you understand?"

Serra's gaze lingered on the girls before meeting his own. Her poise was perfect. Her eyes, and that slight tremor in her throat, was not.

"Yes," she whispered.

* * *

Serra had swallowed her pride and done everything he'd asked. The _Alfred_ had remained in orbit, and marines had been stationed in the perimeter of the establishment. The Companion instructors had been resentful, and the students had been fearful. But reminding them that the marines had guns and a weapon of another kind between their legs had kept them in check. The Operative had no fear that they'd not toe the line. If anything, he was more afraid of Serra stepping out of turn. She was like a chameleon – able to blend in to suit the needs of her prey. Whether it be to educate them, please them through physical contact, or for all he knew, kill them.

But she'd done as he asked – she'd contacted Reynolds through real-time communication. Told him about bandits, and payment, and had given a passable impression that it was genuine. The Operative didn't know what their dynamic was. But Serra had spoken her words clearly. If Reynolds didn't arrive, he couldn't blame her. Not too much anyway.

But arrive he had. The _Alfred_ had alerted him to the arrival of _Serenity_ in the moon's orbit. Located on the other side of the planet, it had tracked _Serenity_ 's pulse beacon into the planet's atmosphere. He'd ordered them to hold fire, and had waited in Serra's quarters. Reynolds would come. He had sharpshooters in the training house grounds that would relay his movements. Once they drew line of sight, Reynolds would be his. And through him, the Tams.

From an alcove linked to her quarters, Operative watched Serra kneel in front of a Buddha statue, lightning some incense sticks. Generating a sweet smell that he wasn't keen on appreciating. Looking out the window of the chambers, he saw a line of young trainees filing by in robes, with red shawls over their heads. Most were small, though he noted that the one in the back was a bit larger. The Operative had seen several such processions since his arrival here a day ago, and he'd paid them no mind. They were irrelevant to his mission.

But then the large one in the back broke off and came into Serra's chambers, kneeling down beside her.

"Dear Buddha, please send me a pony, and a plastic rocket, and-"

"Mal!"

The Operative had to admit to being both surprised and amused – two states of affairs he rarely encountered in himself. There was a word in a long dead language that came to mind: "chutzpah." For Reynolds to actually disguise himself so ludicrously, and to actually get this far…

"What are you doing here?" Serra asked frantically.

"You invited me," Reynolds answered.

"I never thought for a second you'd be stupid enough to come!"

 _Neither did I_ , the Operative reflected, smiling as he did so. He'd come to understand Reynolds's true psychosis by studying his file, but this showed him previously unrealized depths.

Still petulant, Reynolds said, "well that makes you kind of a tease, doesn't it?"

"You knew my invitation wasn't on the level." Serra got to her feet and began pacing. Just as Reynolds removed the shawl of his robes.

"Which led me to the conclusion that you must be in some kind of trouble."

"I'm fine," Serra said unconvincingly. "I'm…giddy."

"For a woman schooled in telling men what they wanna hear, you ain't much of a liar."

"Mal, you cannot handle this man."

Taking that as a good cue, the Operative entered from his vantage point in the next room. Before him stood Serra. And below her, Malcolm Reynolds. Former hero of the Independents, now hero of anyone who aspired to mimic the appearance of the opposite sex.

Yet he paused as Reynold's gaze met his. Physically, he was identical to his profile picture. Yet the mugshot hadn't done Reynolds justice. There was a…confidence about him, the Operative reflected. That he'd seen everything the universe could throw at him, to the point where he was no longer fazed. "Scoundrel" was a term that came to mind, but it wasn't that accurate. The Operative had dealt with scoundrels, smugglers, and vagabonds before. There was something else about Reynolds. Something of a…soldier. Buried deep down, waiting for the right opportunity to surface.

Nonetheless, he spoke. "I have to say, I'm impressed that you would come for her yourself. And that you would make it this far in that outfit."

Reynolds stood up. "I can be very graceful when I need to."

And the swagger of a scoundrel echoed in his voice. "I've no doubt."

Serra picked up another incense stick and put it among the others , though the Operative would have thought that the ones she'd had were sufficient. Reynolds shed his absurd disguise and asked her what she was doing.

"I'm praying for you Mal."

The Operative chuckled. "That's very thoughtful. But I mean it when I say you're not in any danger."

"Speak your piece." Reynolds spoke as if he were in charge, which the Operative supposed was natural for a captain and former sergeant.

"I think you're beginning to understand how dangerous River Tam is."

Reynolds shrugged. "She is a mite unpredictable. Mood swings, of a sort."

"It's worse than you know."

"It usually is."

"That girl will rain destruction on you and your ship. She's an albatross, captain."

"Way I remember it, albatross was a ship's good luck till some idiot killed it." Reynolds glanced at Serra. "Yes, I've read a poem. Try not to faint."

The Operative nodded, conceding the point to Reynolds. "I've seen your war record. I know how you must feel about the Alliance."

"You really don't."

Reynold's tone had changed again. The scoundrel was gone. The soldier was there, if only momentarily. And his voice carried his wounds, even if his body no longer did.

"Fair to say," the Operative once again conceded. "But I have to hope you understand that you can't beat us."

"I got no need to beat you. I just wanna go my way."

 _The rallying cry of the Independents._ "And you can do that. Once you let me take River Tam back home."

As the Operative moved around the room, he noted that Reynolds moved with him, always making sure to keep some difference between his foe and Serra. It was almost touching.

"No, no," Reynolds said, smiling, and as his voice changed, any notion of him being the noble knight went with it. "You're working this deal all crabbed. You've got to open with payment."

"That is a trap," the Operative said. "I offer money, you'll play the man of honour and take umbrage. I ask you to do what's right, you'll play the brigand." He began walking again. "I've no stomach for games; I already know you'll not see reason."

"Alliance wanted to show me reason, they shouldn't have sent an assassin."

The Operative stopped. Once more, Reynolds was using his "soldier voice." And he remained silent. There was only one way this could go, and he'd known that from the beginning, even if he'd hopes otherwise. "I have a warship in deep orbit, Captain. We locked onto _Serenity_ 's pulse beacon the moment you hit atmo. I can speak a word and send a missile to that exact location inside of three minutes. "

Reynolds pulled a small rectangular device out of his pocket. "You do that, best make peace with your dear and fluffy lord."

He tossed the gizmo to the Operative who caught it. "Pulse beacon," he sighed. Reynolds was still determined to unnecessarily complicate this.

"Advice from an old tracker," Reynolds said. "You wanna find someone, use your eyes."

"How long do you really think you can run from us?"

"I never credited the Alliance with an overabundance of brains. And if you're the best they've got-"

"Captain Reynolds, I should tell you so that you don't waste your time: you can't make me angry."

Serra rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Just spend an hour with him."

Reynolds shot her a look. And if not for the circumstances, the Operative would have found that amusing. "I need her, Captain. River is my purpose and I will gather her to me. The brother as well. Whatever else happens is incidental in the greater scheme."

"Why is it that the greater scheme always makes everything not that great?"

The Operative put the pulse beacon aside and began to take a seat. "I want to resolve this like civilized men. I'm not threatening you, I'm unarmed-"

"Good."

With a quick draw, Reynolds pulled out a revolver and shot the Operative right in the chest. Both the chair and its occupant toppled over.

 _So predictable._

He'd been prepared for this. As he climbed to his feet, he saw Reynolds grab Serra's arm and begin leading her out of the chamber. He put a stop to that as he grabbed Reynolds in a headlock.

"I am of course wearing full body armour, I am not a moron!"

He then tossed Reynolds against a wall, and used the momentum of the toss to block a blow from Serra. Within seconds he'd kicked her to the ground. There'd been strength and skill in her attack, but Companion training in martial arts was but one of many they had to spread themselves over. His skill in the fist and sword had been nurtured over years. And against much deadlier opponents.

Reynolds reached for his gun again. The Operative knocked it out of his hands, and continued to pummel him, Reynolds's back against the wall. He launched a clumsy strike of his own that the Operative easily countered, made some blows of his own, and then threw him aside. The Operative walked over, wiping away some sweat from his brow. And slowly, and shakily, Reynolds got to his feet. His former bravado was gone. Blood trickled from his nose.

"No backup?" Reynolds asked. He was going for the lost bravado, instead he sounded breathless. "We're making an awful ruckus."

"They'll come when they're needed."

"I'd start whistling."

"Captain, what do you think is going to happen here?"

Reynolds responded with a clumsy attack that the Operative saw coming three seconds before the captain even moved. He easily parried the blow, and before long, had Reynolds in a headlock. This time though, Reynolds managed to pry his arm away, and get in some blows of his own. But the Operative responded in kind – Reynolds's strength was running out, and the attacks were slower and weaker than they otherwise would be. He, on the other time, had yet to exert himself.

So even as Reynolds slammed into him, sending them towards Serra's bed, he didn't care. Nor did he mind as Reynolds grabbed the bed curtains, wrapped them around his head, and hit it again and again. He broke free, and let out a quick succession of attacks that sent Reynolds sprawling. Serra rose and performed a kick attack, but he again parried her blow, and again sent her slamming against the wall. And yet again, Reynolds tried to be the white knight. And again failed, as the Operative parried every blow and brought the captain against his outstretched arm. Reynolds fell to the ground with a thud. Alive, but beaten.

The Operative glanced at Serra – she was faring better, but she wasn't ready to rise yet. And unlike Reynolds, who was struggling to regain his bearings, she at least had the sanity to realize how outmatched she was. And the Operative shook his head – he could have killed both of them by now. This time wasting had to end.

"Nothing here is what it seems," the Operative said as he walked back to the alcove. He opened his briefcase and removed his sword. "He's not the plucky hero." He walked back into the chamber, sword at the ready, passing by the Buddha statue. "The Alliance isn't some evil empire. This is not the grand arena."

"And that's not incense," Serra said.

The Operative glanced at the incense sticks. One of them was burning with greater speed than incense generally did. Rather like a fuse.

 _What the-_

Before he could react, the Operative felt like a giant fist had punched him in the stomach, sending him flying towards the doorway. A blinding white light filled his eyes. The ringing of a thousand bells filled his ears.

And then he passed out.

* * *

 _I should have kicked her harder._

It was the first thought to enter his mind as he began to return to the world of the living. Of the awake. Of those _not_ suffering from the effects of a flash grenade, and those _not_ lying on the ground of a Companion's quarters. And certainly not those looking up in a daze at four marines, no doubt having been drawn to the room by the sound of the explosion.

"Sir, what happened?"

"Just a flash bomb." He gestured groggily towards the door. "Go! Go!"

The marines obliged, and the Operative closed his eyes. He'd seen Serra as nothing more than a means to an end – not a potential threat. Now she and her white knight were out the door, no doubt trying to get back to _Serenity_. Which, thanks to Reynolds's stunt with the pulse beacon, he could no longer track.

The Operative rose to his feet and drew out a comm. unit from his pocket, which he slotted over his ear. Radio chatter filled the line – that a shuttle had just taken off and was moving upwards at escape velocity. No doubt the ship Reynolds had come in, and not _Serenity_. Which was God knew where right now. Even if it was in orbit of Burnet, that was a lot of atmosphere to cover.

"All teams, form up," the Operative said. "Meet me at the training house entrance."

Mistakes had been made, he reflected, as he put his sword back in his briefcase. All he could do right now was to salvage the situation, and rectify them. Quickly.

And, if necessarily, painfully.

* * *

For the first time, the Operative interfered with the training house beyond his use of Serra, but only insofar as asking for a cup of tea. A request which the terrified superintendent had provided. And now, he was at the house entrance, looking over the forests of Burnet, as were the marines at his side. Bravo Team had confirmed that they'd made it to the shuttle before Reynolds had, but that hadn't stopped them from failing to keep Reynolds and Serra from lifting off and heading into orbit.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thought. _This should have ended already._ He activated his comm. and contacted Carmelito, who was back on the _Alfred_.

"Talk to me."

"Sir, we can't find the _Serenity_. Its pulse-"

"Forget the pulse beacon," he said. "There must be another way to track the ship. Get a read on the navsat. It's a registered transport, you must be able to locate-"

"Sir?"

"Yes, have you found a navsat trajectory?" The Operative rose the teacup to his lips.

Carmelito hesitated. "Sir, we found seven."

And the tea never made it to its destination. Sighing, the Operative took a seat. He had a headache coming on. And it wasn't just due to the flashbang.

"Sir, should we-"

"Yes. I'll be up there soon."

The Operative took off his comm. unit and took a sip of the tea. It was warm and bitter. Not unlike how he was feeling.

He trusted Carmelito to be able to track down the navsats. But that would take time, and most likely the _Serenity_ would be out of range before they identified it. This mission had turned into a disaster, and if anything, he was in a worse position than he'd been in when it started. Because not only did he have no idea where _Serenity_ would flee to, but now its captain knew he was being pursued.

The Operative took another sip of the tea and closed his eyes. _I should have killed him. Serra. The Tams. This should have been over by now._

And he could only blame himself. And as he felt the autumn breeze, as a bitter taste danced in his throat, he was reminded of words he had uttered less than a month ago.

" _Do you know what your sin is, Doctor? It's pride."_

Mathias had died for his sin. Yet in letting Reynolds get away, he was now no better. Pride had blinded him, made him overconfident. Pride had cost him the element of surprise. Thanks to his pride, Reynolds and the Tams were on their way into the Black.

The Operative finished his tea and took a breath. Pride had become his sin. He, like Mathias, had failed the Alliance.

He could never let that happen again.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So, now we're in movie territory. It was intended from the outset that the final two chapters of the story cover the timeframe of_ Serenity _, but per the decision to give chapters 1-5 an ongoing narrative, more of that had to be reflected here. What was also reflected was the novelization of_ Serenity _itself. Not a novelization that I'm that fond of, but because of the sequences that slip into the Operative's POV, some sequences were taken verbatim. As mentioned earlier, generally trying to stick as close to canon as possible._

 _One exception to this was the Mathias section, which is where within the_ Firefly _storyline things get iffy. Taking the movie by itself, while the Operative killing Mathias is effectively characterization (e.g. the saying that "actions define a character"), it is a bit headscratching that the Alliance would order Mathias killed at all. The Alliance can do some heinous things, but it's not at the level of 'stupid evil.' There's the chance the Operative made the decision to kill Mathias on his own, but again, makes little sense. The novelization does offer some insight into this in that it claims that the Alliance is shutting down its psychic program, in which case, it would make sense that Mathias could be seen as a liability. However, two problems. One, the novelization appears to be based off an earlier version of the screenplay, and two, it doesn't gel with_ Leaves on the Wind _, which shows the psychic program being alive and well, and, Kalista notwithstanding, shows that it's got psychic soldiers under its control without issue. You could argue that the Alliance simply decided to reactivate the program after the broadwave, but IMO, the simpler explanation that the novelization is in error in this case. As such, incorporated elements of it, but left in the extra lines and context._


	8. Wrath

_O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?_

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Chapter 7: Wrath**

After leaving the training house, it had taken the Operative only a few minutes to reach his shuttle. A few more minutes passed as the craft took him into orbit, docking with the _Alfred_. And a few minutes after that, he was on the bridge of his ship. Carmelito greeted him instantly.

"We've tracked two of the navsats," the ensign said. "They're decoys. We're tracking the third now."

The Operative nodded. It was a futile effort, but fortune might favour them and provide them with _Serenity_ 's actual navsat. "Keep me informed. I will be with our guests."

For a moment, Carmelito looked uneasy. But a moment later, the look had gone, complimented with the words "yes Sir." And he returned to his post.

The Operative departed the bridge and headed down through the ship's main corridor. Before long he arrived at the entrance to the interrogation room. With a hiss, the door opened, and he stepped inside – the air circulation wasn't good in here – it pumped in very hot or cold air, depending on what the Operative ordered. The lights were too bright, and the walls were featureless black. Crude techniques for putting one's subject on edge, yet quite effective ones.

He knew that from experience. Even if he couldn't recall it, it had been part of his training. Torture resistance, escape…it had served him well. Even if he'd never been captured. Which was more than he could say for the two prisoners that resided in the chamber. After watching the feed from Beaumonde, he'd ordered Interpol to do some digging. And as he'd entered the Blue Sun system, fortune had smiled on him, and entrusted to him two persons of interest. Associates of Malcolm Reynolds, and twins, at that. Black hair that included moustaches and stubble, brown eyes, average builds…they reminded the Operative of weasels. In this case, battered, bruised, tied up, and most importantly, scared weasels. More crude, but effective interrogation techniques he'd employed before heading down to Burnet. And with Reynolds out in the Black, it was time to return to their session.

"We ain't done nothin!'" one twin cried as the Operative walked in. The words were slurred, due to him missing several of his teeth.

"Mister Mingojerry Rample. Mister Fantastic Rample. Twins, born to Alanna Rample and an unknown father. One boy derives his name from a misremembered T.S. Elliot poem, the other from Alanna Rample's expression upon realizing she had a second bun in the oven. A thoroughly unimaginative woman, who passed that trait onto her sons." The Operative sat down on the chair that faced the two twins. "As to Mingojerry's statement, that was, in fact, incorrect. You've done plenty. There are eight warrants with your names on them. If you wish to continue living to violate those warrants, gentlemen, you will be so kind as to answer every single question I have regarding Captain Malcolm Reynolds and the _Serenity_."

"Malcolm Reynolds?" Fanty asked. "We don't know any-"

The Operative kicked him. "Please don't waste my time. I know that Malcolm Reynolds is an associate of yours, and that his most recent escapade involved a heist on Lilac and a rendezvous on Beaumonde. Cherokee Security lost tens of thousands of scrip, not to mention their pride."

"We didn't-"

The Operative kicked him again. "And while I don't care what happens to private security firms who can't do the jobs they're hired for, _my_ job is to track down Malcolm Reynolds. And to do my job I have to ask around." He smiled. "Do you understand?"

Fanty nodded. Mingo looked apprehensive. And the Operative's smile faded. Simple interrogation techniques – flickers of amity, but not too much to put the prisoner at ease. Not yet at least.

"We don't know where Reynolds is," Mingo slurred. "Last we saw of 'im was on Beaumonde."

"I know. And I believe you." The Operative began pacing around. "You were quite kind a few days ago when you told me about the girl you encountered in the Maidenhead. But I'm afraid that's not enough." He crouched down, and both of the twins looked at him. "So, here's what you're going to do. You're going to inform me of all of Reynold's known berths. Who he knows, where he can find haven, that sort of thing."

"We don't know-"

The Operative grabbed Fanty's ring finger and broke it.

" _Try_ ," said the Operative.

Like the bursting of a dam, the twins let their mouths open and words poured out. Name after name. Planet after planet, moon after moon, even the name of a few space stations. Some were wild shots. Others could have been lies. But the Operative nonetheless let them continue. Prompting them to do so through painful means when they slowed down. Even rewarding them with water as the half hour mark came. And then, finally, after an hour had passed, after Carmelito had long since informed him that they hadn't found _Serenity_ , he'd had enough. The twins were on the edge of their leash. And had been beaten by the stick long enough.

So the Operative ended it. He walked over to the door, which opened with the same hiss it always did. He had a lot of work ahead of him.

"Wait."

He glanced back at the twins, not sure which had spoken. But it was Mingo that spoke next.

"You said that if we wanted to live…we-"

"Don't worry," the Operative said. "You'll be off my ship before you know it."

The door closed and the Operative headed for CIC. He had some data to shift through, favours to call in, orders to issue.

The first of which was assigning Bravo Team to take the twins to the airlock.

* * *

"Sir?"

The Operative remained seated in CIC. Days had passed since the Burnet FUBAR. In the span of those days, he'd cross referenced the data Fanty and Mingo had given him, and made the necessary decisions. Over the last five hours, by his hand, dozens, perhaps even hundreds of people had been killed by strike teams sent from all branches of the Alliance. "Carte blanche," were the words he had given to Serra, and those words still applied. And now he was tapped into numerous feeds from the sites – Sanchez Ship Repair and Storage on Boros. The K-3 Mining Post on Whitefall. The town on Haven on the moon of Haven – the least original of all the names, and the most problematic, as he'd lost contact with the cruiser sent to the world. And yet, from the reports he'd received, the one that had endured by far the most carnage.

"Sir?"

And this time he turned away from the screens. Before him stood Ensign Carmelito. Looking well dressed, well groomed, and not at all in a good state of mind.

"I asked not to be disturbed."

"Is it true?"

"When I ask not to be disturbed, I hope you realize that it's an order."

"Is it true?" Carmelito repeated.

The Operative sighed and closed his eyes. "What's true?"

"That you sent kill teams all over the 'Verse to kill anyone who even _might_ have been in contact with Malcolm Reynolds?"

"Not sent, ordered. Other branches did the sending and-"

"We're not murderers!"

Carmelito was shaking; on the verge of tears. His fists were clenched. He wanted a fight. But likely knew that it would avail him nothing.

"Hold old are you?" the Operative asked.

"…twenty-seven."

"And you served on three ships before being granted this assignment."

"Yes Sir." The fists remained clenched.

"And on any of those ships, did you take part in any engagements? Smugglers? Pirates?" The Operative paused. "Reavers?"

"…yes Sir."

"And did you kill anyone?"

"No Sir."

"But people died, no?" the Operative asked.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything."

The Operative spun round in his chair and pressed a button. One of the feeds changed to a recording, showing a town reduced to smouldering ruins. Bodies were everywhere. Blood was on the few structures that remained standing, used to paint all manner of symbols that only made sense to the minds of the damned.

"This is a feed from a SAR team, taken from Viridian on Lilac a few days ago." He spun back round to Carmelito. "Reaver handiwork."

Carmelito suddenly looked a lot more pale than usual.

"Does it bother you, Ensign?"

He didn't answer.

"It should. Because this was a sin of which there is no forgiveness. The Reavers come. Kill. Rape. They do so without reason or mercy. That they are human is true only in a biological sense."

There was the sound of retching – someone on the SAR team had let the sight of mutilated corpses get to him.

"I came into contact with Reavers myself once," the Operative continued. "Two years ago, on a ship called the _Vagabond._ The Reavers killed almost everyone aboard. When my team and I arrived, they took the lives of ten more people, including eight of those that I entered the ship with." He paused, remembering the events. The screams. The shooting. How the _Vagabond_ had been removed from the face of the universe. "Do you know why they do that Ensign?"

He remained silent.

"Neither do I." He shut the feed off. "But I do know why I have done this. It's horrible, yes. Like the _Vagabond_ , many innocents have perished. But it is all for a purpose. It is what separates the Alliance from the Reavers – men like us, Carmelito. We make the hard choices. We do the things no-one else can. To be both angel and demon, so that Man may live in paradise, and never know of the depths of Hell we must enter in order to keep serpents out."

Carmelito swallowed. "Why are you telling me this Sir?"

"Because similar words were spoken to me once. Even after all these years, and the erasure of so many memories, I recall them. These words have kept me going. And if what I do bothers you, then you may take solace in knowing that there is more humanity in you than that what remains in me." He rose to his feet and placed a hand on the ensign's shoulder. "Now do your duty."

Carmelito remained in place, even as he took the Operative's arm, and removed it from his shoulder. They were of similar height, but that was where the similarities ended. Their skin, their eyes, even their uniforms were different. And Carmelito most certainly didn't have a sword at his side.

But the ensign said nothing. Not as he turned without saluting, not as he reached the door. And the Operative retook his seat and returned to the feed. Sooner or later, Reynolds would get in touch with him.

"Sir?"

The Operative looked back at him.

"Why did Mathias have to die?"

The Operative had no answer.

"We're after the Tams. But why Mathias? The damage was done. What could possibly warrant-"

"Ensign-"

"Do you even know?!"

The Operative sighed – he knew he should discipline Carmelito where he stood. But he indulged him.

"Someone high up wanted Mathias dead," he said. "That's the only conclusion I can draw. Quite possibly the same member of parliament whose mind was read by River Tam."

"And that's it," Carmelito said. "Mathias screwed up. And he had to die for it."

"Yes."

"And you don't even care."

"It's not my place to care."

"And why's that?"

"Because of what I am. An Operative. I don't question. I can't question. I can only do what parliament orders me to do, so that civilization is free to indulge in the questions of 'what if' or 'if only.'"

"Who are you?" Carmelito whispered. "What are you?"

"No one. Because of what I am. What I've been since the moment I became an Operative."

"And before that? What then? What kind of man decides to-"

"That will be all, Ensign."

Carmelito didn't continue. After a moment's pause, he walked out of CIC, the door closing behind him. And the Operative was glad. Their little heart to heart had wasted more time than he'd cared for. And raised questions he'd rather not consider.

 _I can't remember. I know I joined willingly. But…_

He closed his eyes.

 _Better worlds. Worlds without sin._

He remembered those words. Somehow, after all these years, he remembered. Words by which men like Salim Bhairavi had died at his hand. Words that had allowed him to end the life of Philbert Mathias as well, in the knowledge of it being part of a greater good. Words that could lead him into battle with the Reavers. And give him solace as his nightmares sought to take that away from him.

 _All of them better worlds._

Carmelito was a good man. But he could make this mission more difficult than it needed to be.

Of course, he reflected, looking at the handiwork of the strike teams wasn't making it any easier.

And yet all he could do was wait. Sooner or later Reynolds would find out, and then, he'd get in touch. Sooner or later he would see sense and give River Tam over.

Or otherwise, join the departed.

* * *

At each of the sites, the Operative had instructed the strike teams to leave behind a _Mole_ -class Cortex node. The Cortex facilitated FTL communications, but the nodes served a different purpose of being able to hone in on a starship's navsat. Further orders had been given for all ships to stay in the area of their attack and be ready to move in at his order once _Serenity_ was detected. Yet not too close that prying eyes would suspect that the Alliance had been involved in mass killings.

Which was why it was to both his satisfaction and frustration that he received a navsat alert from Haven. On one hand, it was in Blue Sun, and in easy travel range. On the other, the cruiser that had attacked the township wasn't responding to hails, so he couldn't order them to make a strike. So now, as he watched the ping on his terminal at CIC, he was left to ask himself, "what now?" He could move in, but that would take time, and Reynolds might leave before he arrived. He could contact him, but that could tip him off. The Operative rubbed his chin. Wondering. And hoping.

 _One last chance._

His masters wanted the Tams. Reynolds was a criminal and a thug, but he wasn't his target. He would have to realize why Haven had been attacked. And maybe that would be enough to get the captain to see sense.

 _Very well._

The Operative gave the command to establish a link between the _Alfred_ and _Serenity_. And pressed a single button on a nearby terminal, as the _Alfred_ made its way to Haven. It would take the ship four hours to reach the moon, and likely, Reynolds would be gone before they arrived. But no harm in trying after all.

The link was established and the Operative frowned. Reynolds had tapped into feeds at their other safehouses. He and/or his crew were observing his handiwork right now. So as the words **CONNECTION ESTABLISHED** appeared on his screen, as he saw Reynolds on the other side of the link, he paused. His eyes watery, his jaw loose, the man looked…broken. There was no other word for it. The Operative had seen grief, guilt, and all manner of suffering. But never the gaze of one so dead to the universe.

"I'm sorry."

The words just came bubbling out. But he didn't regret them. At the least, Reynolds deserved to hear such an utterance. And he himself needed to say them as he remembered Carmelito's words.

 _We're not murderers._

Reynolds slowly looked at him. And the Operative continued. For both their sakes.

"If your quarry goes to ground, leave no ground to go to." He paused, before continuing. "You should have taken my offer. Or did you think none of this was your fault?"

"I don't murder children," Reynolds said, his tone sounding as dead as the gaze his face bore.

"I do, if I have to," the Operative responded.

"Why?" Reynolds whispered. "Do you even know why they sent you?"

The Operative paused. Remembering Mathias. Remembering that all he knew was that River Tam was an Alpha-level target who knew something that could destroy the Alliance. And that he had never asked why.

"It's not my place to ask."

As was the natural order of things.

"I believe in something greater," the Operative continued. "A world without sin."

"So me and mine gotta lay down and die so you can live in your better world?"

"I'm not going to live there." The Operative's tone was the same, but inside, he felt like a snake was crawling away at him. Tempting paradise, when he knew he could never reach it. "There's no place for me there, any more than there is for you. Malcolm…" He paused. Remembering Mathias. Carmelito. The faces of each and every person he'd killed.

"I'm a monster."

Knowing he would never receive thanks. That even as his actions were vindicated, history would forget him. A star long burnt out, eclipsed, as the universe grew brighter.

"What I do is evil, I've no illusions about it, but it must be done."

"Keep talking," Reynolds said, averting his gaze from the Operative. "You're not getting a location trace off this wave."

"And every minute you keep River Tam away from me, more people will die."

"You think I care?!"

"Of course you care," the Operative said, feeling an unwanted stab of pity for the captain. "You're not a Reaver Mal. You're a human man, and you will never understand how-"

Reynolds broke the connection. Leaving the Operative in the dark of his ship. And in silence.

And yet his gaze remained focused on the screen. Reynolds had been wrong about one thing – he _had_ got a location trace off the Cortex wave, and glancing at another terminal, he had further confirmation that the _Serenity_ was on Haven. And yet, even as Reynolds had expressed his ignorance, he hadn't derived any satisfaction from it. Malcolm Reynolds and all his crew would die, and there was no need for them to. He'd tried to make the man see sense, and he'd failed. True, the fault lay with Reynolds as well. And yet, he was the better man. He was the best of the best, the will of the Alliance, the one who did the things no one else could so that paradise could remain as was. And yet, he felt as if he had failed.

"Ensign," he said over the intercom. "ETA to Haven."

"Three hours, fifty-three minutes, and-"

The Operative shut it off. In other words, not nearly enough time to get to Haven before Reynolds departed it. Before he began running just a little longer.

"So that's how it is," he said to himself. "A chase to the end."

He frowned – monologuing. Pathetic. He leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying to avoid the gazes of Malcolm Reynolds and Philbert Mathias. Trying to cast his mind back through the years of carnage and intrigue. To wonder where he had lost count of how many lives he had taken. And to speak once more.

"We're making a better world. All of them, better worlds."

And that he had to believe it.

* * *

"Define 'disappeared.'"

The Operative had his back to Carmelito, and continued to star out through the bridge's plexiglas windows. Before him loomed the moon of Haven in all its brown, uninteresting glory.

"Sir, the _Serenity_ is not on Haven."

"I know that Ensign, I wasn't expecting Reynolds to be an idiot and hang around. I want to know where he is _now_."

"Sir, we have over fifty ships sweeping the Blue Sun system. None of them have reported any sightings of _Serenity_ , nor has law enforcement on any world picked them up."

"They must have something."

"No Sir. It's like they've…disappeared."

The Operative swore, much to his disapproval. Swearing was a reactionary mechanism, a way of releasing anger through verbal rather than physical means. It was what separated mankind from lesser beasts, yet made them animals all the same. And yet he recalled what he'd said to Reynolds. That he couldn't make him angry. And now?

 _And now you're intent on dragging this out as long as possible._

The Operative hadn't expected Reynolds to stay at Haven, though he'd brought the _Alfred_ just to make sure. All they'd found was the town of Haven in ruins, and with the cruiser he'd sent downed, with all the crew dead. More lives lost to recover a pair of siblings harboured by a fugitive who he hadn't even heard of more than a week ago. And yet now, by proxy, Reynolds had become the most wanted man in the 'Verse.

"Give me a starmap." He turned to Carmelito. "I want to see our ship dispersal."

The ensign obliged, and before long, the Blue Sun system was being displayed. The inner planets, Meridian, New Canaan, Muir, and the gas giant Fury. Then the Uroboros asteroid field, followed by the outer planets of Highgate, Dragons Egg, Deadwood, and Shenzou. And finally, out on the fringes, the protostar Burnham. The first brown dwarf in the Verse to be helioformed. And yet left to rot. Burnham was deep in Reaver territory.

The Operative remained silent as Carmelito pinpointed all the major ships within the quadrant, stationed alongside the main shipping routes. Space was big – they both knew that. And it was unlikely that Reynolds would keep to the main space lanes. But the _Serenity_ was a mere _Firefly_ -class transport. Only four hours had passed since his conversation with Reynolds, and he couldn't have got out of Blue Sun by then. And he couldn't run forever either. Blue Sun was the edge of Alliance space.

 _So where are you Reynolds?_ The Operative wondered. _Where's my albatross?_

There was no answer. Not from the map, not from Carmelito, not from anyone.

"Alright," the Operative said. "Keep at it. And try to find out what you can about our last link. Mister Universe, I believe."

"That's not a lot to go on Sir."

"I know. But try anyway. We have the time. Reynolds doesn't."

He walked off the bridge and headed for his quarters. In the long run, Reynolds couldn't win. He could head out into the Black, or make a shot for Murphy or Georgia. But sooner or later, the albatross would be shot. Maybe even taken alive.

But something about this felt wrong. As an Operative, he had carte blanche over his hunt. But even he thought that fifty ships was excessive. And yet, the Alliance had provided them without hesitation. As soon as he'd confirmed the presence of _Serenity_ within Blue Sun, Alliance High Command had sent an entire fleet's worth of ships into the system. Someone, or some people, were scared. Somehow, River Tam was worth all of this. Not just all the lives he'd taken, but this expenditure of this amount of resources as well.

 _Do you even know why they sent you?_

He winced as he entered his quarters. Reynolds once again gnawed away at his thoughts.

 _It's not my place to ask._

And his training kept the demons at bay. He'd had enough trouble seeing the survey footage of Haven. As the children he had killed (because the situation had required it) looked up at him. Or faced the warm, dead earth.

 _Malcolm…I'm a monster._

He took a seat and booted up his terminal. He didn't disagree with those words. He didn't regret his actions. And yet, he'd never done something on this kind of scale. Had never taken the word "collateral" so literally. Never taken the lives of so many so he could take the life of one, for reasons that were unknown to him.

 _Did I know?_ He wondered. _Was I comfortable with my choice then?_

He couldn't answer. The mind wipe had seen to that. And given the unease he was feeling, that was probably for the best. He didn't need more emotional baggage.

It didn't stop him from drawing up a picture of himself within his files – it was for reference, used for identity generation when a photo was required. It depicted a 28 year old man. Strong. Tall. Calm and confident. Biting his lip, the Operative's hands flew across the keys. Running the photo through a software ageing program. And setting it backwards by six years.

 _Why am I doing this?_

It didn't serve his mission. He should be searching for more leads. Or practicing his swordplay. Or heck, reading. That at least improved the mind. But this?

He nonetheless looked at the image. Six years younger. He didn't look that different, he thought. But six years ago was when he'd been made an Operative. Even if he couldn't remember it. That was when a life he couldn't even remember had come to an end. When he had ceased to exist.

His hands flew over the keys as he used the new image in facial recognition software. The same kind he'd used on Reynolds. More time wasting, part of his mind told him. More sloth. Another sin. And one so soon after falling to pride.

 _I need to know,_ another part of his mind said.

A match was found. The option to open the file was made.

 _For which much wisdom comes much sorrow._

He opened it, ignoring Ecclesiastes's words. And sitting back in his chair, he began to read.

 **Name: Dante Lodovico**

 **Gender: Male**

 **DOB: 2490/01/20**

 **Social Control #: 18,241,012,010,524**

 _ **Son of Beatrice and Virgil Lodovico, born on Londinium. Joined Alliance Marines in 2506, in light of the outbreak of the Unification War. Assigned to 29**_ _ **th**_ _ **Planetary Assault Division. Received rank of lieutenant in 2509 upon transfer to Special Alliance Support. Given command of Team Alpha 13 in 2510. Believed KIA at Battle of Serenity Valley, 2511, where Lodovico and his unit were tasked with disrupting Independent armoured forces. Operation carried out at cost of entire unit. No body was recovered.**_

 _ **Posthumous award of Silver Saber.**_

The Operative put a hand to his chin as he looked at the man before him. The aging software had been accurate, but this was...validation, he wondered? The notion that he was still a man? That he'd existed, and that at one point in his life, he'd had a name? That he'd willingly become the arm of the Alliance, sacrificing all that he'd known?

 _Serenity Valley._

Reynolds had been there. The chances of them meeting during the battle were slim, and if they had, Reynolds certainly hadn't recognised him. And yet he wondered…if fate existed, it had an interesting sense of humour.

 _Once you've been in Serenity, you never leave. You just learn to live there._

It was an old Independent saying from veterans of the battle. One that he'd picked up from Salim, before he'd killed the man. Like he'd do to Reynolds when the moment came.

 _I was there._

He'd visited Serenity Graveyard. The memory was a haze to him now. He knew he'd met another Operative that day, but he couldn't remember what they'd talked about. He frowned – he couldn't remember anything of his life before an Operative. But even after becoming one, some moments were unclear in his mind. In a manner that he couldn't attribute to time.

 _This is unproductive._

He shooed the thoughts away and extracted the image from the profile. He fed it to the software, de-aging it another six years. Dante Lodovico, at the age of sixteen. Longer hair. Softer features. Shorter as well. But there was no doubt that he was looking at the same person. Even if it was a face he could no longer remember.

 _What the hell am I doing?_

The question remained in his mind, throbbing like a tumour. This didn't serve any purpose. He was on the hunt for an alpha-level target, in a mission that had seen him fail at least once, and as a result, take dozens of innocent lives. What good would this do him or the Alliance?

But he still read. Looked up everything he could on Dante Lodovico. School record. Service record. Memorial record.

 _This is a waste of time._

How had he felt when he'd lost his name, he asked? Had it bothered him during training?

 _A dangerous waste of time._

And still, he read.

Beatrice. His mother. Long dead. Killed in a car accident.

Virgil. His father. Long dead as well. A man who died not long after his son did as well, according to official records.

And another name that lay in his thoughts. Ever since he'd seen that recording of River Tam in the Maidenhead. A name that clawed away at his mind, claw and talon awash with the blood of distant memory.

A name that refused to vanish.

* * *

" _You don't like Shakespeare?"_

" _No, actually I like him quite a lot. It's just_ The Tempest _that I never liked."_

" _Why?"_

" _Oh, the characters are simplistic. Prospero has this great scheme for revenge that takes up the entirety of the play, and then abandons it at the last moment. Oh, and Miranda is a twit who falls for the first hunky boy she sees." His heart skipped a beat. "I mean, not like you. As in, I…um…"_

" _I understand," she said, smiling. "I still think you're wrong though."_

 _He could live with that. Here, as they ate together in the mess hall, this was the only piece of 'living' he'd done in a long time. Even if he hadn't studied Shakespeare since high school, it was right now damn more entertaining than being yelled at on the firing range for not yet achieving 98% accuracy with a battle rifle._

" _So what if it was Ferdinand though?" she asked, smiling between mouthfuls of the soup they were eating. "What if he was the one stranded?"_

" _As in a role reversal?" He smirked. "Same thing. Except a twat rather than a twit."_

" _There's a difference?"_

 _He shrugged. "If there's one thing Shakespeare proved, it's that you can never have enough words in your vocabulary."_

 _She laughed, and the smirk turned into a smile. He liked it when she laughed. She was beautiful when she did so._

" _Naiveté is fine," he continued. "Just as long as you grow out of it."_

" _And is that you?" she asked. "Is this why you're here?"_

" _I'm on a space station that doesn't officially exist, training to be an agent of the Alliance who won't officially exist either." He folded his arms. "I think I'm as deep in the grey as I can get."_

" _Maybe." He smile faded for a moment, as her gaze averted his. A moment later, both had returned. And yet, he noticed it. Facial recognition analysis training was paying off._

" _So then," she continued. "What's your favourite Shakespeare play?"_

 _But training could wait. "Henry the Fifth," he said, without pause. "No question."_

" _And why's that?"_

" _Boy becomes king, king leads his people to war, king wins," he said. "Arguably simple. But Henry was a leader. He faced the odds, and succeeded at every turn. A hero."_

" _But not to the French."_

" _But to the reader. And to me."_

 _He blushed as he raised an eyebrow. Heroes. He was yammering on about heroes in her presence as if he were a child. One with butterflies in his stomach, sweaty palms, and a deep, barely resistible need to kiss her._

" _What's yours?" he asked, fighting that need all the while._

" _Hmm." She took a moment to think. "I'd have to say Othello."_

" _Not Romeo and Juliet?"_

 _He cursed himself for the joke. But she didn't seem to mind._

" _Oh, that's nice as well," she said. "But those two had their love torn apart due to circumstances beyond their control. Othello, though…well, that's a tragedy. Insecurity, racial prejudice…but love. Up to the end."_

 _The need to kiss her was getting even more intense. And, unlike his body, his soup was getting cold. So he was both relieved and disheartened as she got to her feet._

" _I should go," she said._

" _Yeah." He tried to avoid her gaze, but couldn't manage it. He wouldn't kiss her. Not yet. But looking at her, hearing her, being near her…it was almost enough._

" _Night," she said._

" _Goodnight, Miranda."_

 _She smiled, paused, and bent down to him. Kissing him once. Quickly and softly. But with the force of a supernova, and a feeling beyond anything one of the greatest writers in human history had ever provided for him._

" _Goodnight," she whispered. She rose to her feet, and gave him one last smile. "And don't worry about_ The Tempest _. There's many other things called Miranda."_

 _He smiled. And-_

There's many other things called Miranda.

 _After all, from what he recalled, Miranda was the name of a moon in Earth-That-Was's-_

There's many other things called Miranda.

 _It was around its…he couldn't remember how many planets Earth's system had-_

There's many other things called Miranda.

* * *

 _Miranda._

Ever since Beaumonde, the name had been eating away at him. Even the quick dose he'd had had involved that word being repeated by some kind of strange woman. "Miranda" was not the activation code for Tam, he knew that much. Miranda was also the name of a character from Shakespeare, the moon of the planet Uranus in the star system of Earth-That-Was, and dozens of places and individuals within the Verse. But none of them had any kind of linkage to a psychic girl, or with any undesirable element. And now, at the end of his rope, he was looking at one more of these nondescript sites – Miranda. A blackrock, and the only planet of the Burnham system. Some kind of terraforming accident, back in '06, as he recalled. Not long before the Unification War broke out.

And yet, as he looked at the planet, he continued to frown, and let the name of "Miranda" gnaw away at his body and mind. There was nothing on the Cortex on the world, and he'd had to dig through public databases to learn that it even existed. Few would have reason to care about Miranda, he understood that, but the lack of detail was astounding. After using his clearance, he'd managed to get more detailed information, such as its mass, gravity, rotational period, and so on. But even then, in the bowls of the Alliance, there was nothing on it. No casualty figures, no details on the terraforming bar something going wrong with an atmospheric processor, or anything like that. It was as if a colony had never existed.

He remembered Kalista, on _Argo_. A lot of the meeting was vague in his mind, but he remembered that they'd discussed the Reavers. That the Reavers didn't officially exist, which was a line that was being repeated even now after the massacre on Lilac. Funny, he reflected, how the Reavers occupied the Burnham system as their own territory. Beings that didn't exist in the company of a planet that didn't exist.

"Sir?"

And he shut the screen of his terminal off as Carmelito walked into his quarters. Under normal circumstances, he'd have berated the ensign for now requesting permission for entry.

 _Aren't these normal circumstances?_

No, he decided. He was hunting a girl that didn't exist, was having dreams about a woman who didn't exist, who shared the name of a planet who didn't exist. And in the midst of all this, he'd given orders that had resulted in hundreds of lives seeking to exist as well.

"What have you got?"

Carmelito handed him a data pad. On it was a profile of a man with brown eyes, messy black hair, and a smirk that made the Operative want to punch him. No-one should look that happy he reflected.

"Mister Universe," Carmelito said. "We've found him."

The Operative looked at the data. Real name unknown. Date and place of birth unknown. List of suspected aliases and supposed professions included Manfred Asbach (pilot), Forrest Whedon (shepherd), Pavlo McGill (planet-diver), and Scott David (prospector). Believed to reside on the moon of Siren.

"Siren?" the Operative asked. "I haven't heard of it."

"It's a small moon that orbits Fury. Most have heard of the planet's six inhabited moons, but there's plenty that haven't been settled. A report was made that the terraforming had fallen apart, and the people on the world had a month to get off. Data states that Siren's atmosphere is poisonous. A blackrock."

"And what do you think?"

"That SIGINT might be onto something. They've traced some anomalous waves to Fury ever since they turned _Argo Station_ onto the area. It's helped our target that Siren's orbit is takes it further from Fury than the other moons, and that the path takes it near an ion cloud. Wrecks havoc with communications and scanning."

The Operative nodded. It matched what Fanty and Mingo had told him, of what little they knew – that Reynolds knew a reclusive techno-geek on an uninhabited moon who went by the name of "Mr Universe." In Blue Sun, a previously unknown location…could Reynolds have gone there?

"So what now?" Carmelito asked. "Do we kill him too?"

"Would it bother you if I said yes?"

Carmelito didn't answer. And the Operative cursed himself for even caring. This was a lowly ensign he was talking to. He didn't have to answer to him. There wasn't a single person on this gorram ship that he owed anything to.

"Well, it might not come to that. We'll head in. If the ion cloud's kept this Mister Universe safe, then it might cloak our approach as well."

"And if he's there?"

The Operative rose to his feet. He didn't owe Carmelito anything. But he still felt obliged to give him an answer.

"Then I decide how many people have to die."

* * *

The Operative watched as the man who called himself Mr Universe conversed with Reynolds. Acting the role he'd been ordered to when the Operative and a squad of marines had descended to the surface of Siren and honed in on the one structure that was emitting a signal. A former communications complex, retrofitted to be a listening station. Mr Universe, faced with the prospect of being gunned down where he stood, had agreed to play ball. And sure enough, Reynolds's crew had contacted him, not saying where or why. Only that they had a some dirt on the Alliance that he wanted out in the open. That the Alliance "wouldn't see this coming" and that he wanted to use his contact's equipment to broadcast it across the 'Verse.

The Operative looked around the room, making sure that none of his men would be seen by the crew in the range of vision the flatscreen provided. He didn't doubt that Mr Universe would have the capability to do such a thing at all.

"No problem," Mr Universe declared jubilantly. "Bring it on bring it on bring it on! From here to the eyes and ears of the 'Verse, that's my motto. Or it would be, if I had a motto."

"We won't be long," said the man on the other side of the screen. The Operative recognised it as Washburne, accompanied by his wife.

"You're gonna get caught in the ion cloud," Mr Universe continued. "It'll play merry hob with your radar, but pretty pretty lights and a few miles after you'll be right in my orbit."

 _He's talking too fast._

"You'll let us know if anyone else comes at you," Alleyne said.

"You'll be the first."

The transmission ended. Dozens more filled the room. Mr Universe was a technophile – through his facility, he had access to every wave that went through the 'Verse, whether it be communication, information, or entertainment. Bereft of any companionship bar the love-bot that was seated on a nearby sofa. God of the machine, without the need of the comfort of mere mortals. Free to act like one with the power that information provided. Power that could not be afforded to anyone not working for the Alliance.

The Operative watched as Mr Universe slowly swivelled around on his chair to look up at him. The smirk he'd seen on the earlier mugshot was gone. Instead he saw resentment. Defiance. The look of a man who was willing to sell out others to save his own skin, but would resent himself for the rest of his life for it.

"There," Mr Universe said. "Toss me my thirty coin, but I got a newswave for you friend-"

The Operative impaled him with his sword. Somehow he had all this information at his disposal, yet was unaware of the fate of traitors. The man looked up at the Operative with confusion. Then sadness. His face seemed to ask "why?" And the Operative, just for a moment, felt pity.

 _Better worlds. All of them better worlds._

The Operative drew out his sword.

 _Malcolm…I'm a monster._

And began walking. Glancing at Carmelito for a moment, seeing nothing but silent anger on his face. He'd broken no promise. He had decided that Mr Universe had to die. Just like Reynolds and his crew would. It was his curse, his duty, to make such decisions so that others didn't have to.

"Call every ship in the quadrant, we'll need them in the air," he said, as he headed for the exit. He glanced back at the room. "Destroy it all."

Silently, he headed through the complex to the surface. A shuttle was waiting for him that would take him up to the _Alfred_. A second shuttle would ferry his men up once the equipment had been destroyed.

It was time to end this.

* * *

Within the hour, fifty-two starships were in orbit of Siren, situated between the moon and the ion cloud. Lightning crackled through the vacuum as the haze of blue covered the entire space before them. Mr Universe hadn't been lying when he said that it would play with their radar – they couldn't detect anything beyond the cloud. Yet the same would apply for Reynolds. Once the _Serenity_ passed through, it would be too late. Cowardly, perhaps, but it would finish this once and for all. The mission didn't have to be done _right_ , it just had to be _done_.

So he stood there. Wearing his black uniform with his black body armour, Carmelito in his navy blues beside him. The ensign hadn't uttered a single word to him bar confirming that all of Mr Universe's equipment had been destroyed. After that, he'd come up to the bridge to watch the firestorm. To see just how many more people had to die.

 _Eight,_ the Operative reflected. _Assuming that Serra remained with them. Love and madness indeed._

Finally, after an eternity of waiting, his helmsman called out, "reading activity in the cloud."

 _At last._ Finally, this mission would be over. "Lock and fire on my command," the Operative said, smiling. Then, to himself, "you should have let me see her captain. We should have done this as men. Not with fire."

"Sir!"

The Operative didn't need warning as the ion cloud began to swirl with displacement. And then, _Serenity_ itself emerged, heading straight for Siren. Like Ulysses swimming straight to the creatures of myth that the moon was named after. His crew unable to restrain him in this case.

Only it wasn't the _Serenity_ that he recalled. This ship had been damaged, modified – been painted red in a haphazard manner, and been given a rather large cannon on its top. Looking at his console readout, the Operative saw that its radiation readings were all wrong.

And then he smiled, realizing what Reynolds had done. He had remade his ship in the image of the Reavers. The Operative had destroyed all the places _Serenity_ could go to, and had forced Reynolds to get creative. Forced him to take his ship into Reaver territory.

"Vessel in range," the Operative said, addressing his entire fleet. "Lock on."

One cannon on a Class III _Firefly_ was no match for any of the ships under the Operative's command, let alone fifty-two of them. And yet, _Serenity_ kept heading towards his fleet. He shook his head. "Bastard's not even changing course."

Oddly, the ion cloud hadn't stopped swirling. In fact, it was moving at an even greater rate, as if several more-

 _No._

Fifty ships came out of the cloud, all of them in the same condition as _Serenity_. Radiation leakage, haphazard design, the extra paint jobs…

 _Reavers._

"Sir?" the helmsman called out, his voice betraying his fear. The Operative glanced around – the same fear that every bridge officer was now wearing.

 _Oh no._

Reynolds had hidden with the Reavers. And somehow, he'd got them to chase him. He'd known this was a trap, and had decided to spring one of his own.

"Target the Reavers," the Operative stammered.

No-one moved. The Reavers designed their ships to invoke fear in their prey.

"Target the Reavers," he repeated.

It was working.

"Target everyone, somebody fire!"

Finally, the _Alfred_ obliged, as did the rest of his fleet. Missiles soared through the black, their exhaust dancing like comet contrails. Lasers pierced the dark, bringing light to the enemies of the Alliance. Mass driver rounds soared through the vacuum, hitting one Reaver ship after another. The might of the Alliance was displayed to the universe in all its fire and fury, bringing swift death to its enemies, as Hell was unleashed in Heaven.

And yet the Reavers kept coming.

* * *

The battle waged on. The Alliance ships kept firing, doing their best to stay in formation and continue their barrage. The Reaver ships did whatever the hell their pilots felt like. Some fired back. Some sent boarding parties. Some performed kamikaze runs into their foes, exploding in brief flares of light, only to fade. The Reavers unforgotten and unmourned. The Alliance personnel, not so much.

And in the midst of this, _Serenity_ had slipped through. The last report from the _Shang Yu_ was that the ship was heading straight for Siren, on a trajectory that aligned with Mr Universe's base.

 _You could have just handed her over, Reynolds,_ the Operative reflected, as he staggered through the corridors of his sinking ship. _You could have made this simple. Instead, you have forced me to destroy so many people – and now you're providing some destruction of your own. This cannot possibly end in anything but more death. And you could have stopped it._

Reports of hull breaches sounded all around him – a Reaver ship had ploughed into the _Alfred_ 's port side, and while it hadn't cut through, it had sent the ship in freefall towards _Siren_ , and left it on the verge of breaking apart. As sirens blared, as the Operative saw people scrambling in a vain attempt to stay alive, he reflected that even if by some miracle that the ship remained in one peace, the atmosphere would roast them alive. But as the ship's computer informed droned out that life support was fading, and the reactor was close to overloading, he wasn't expecting to get that far.

Grabbing a laser pistol off a dead soldier, the Operative headed towards the escape pods located on the lower deck. When he arrived, Carmelito, covered in blood that may or may not have been his own, was struggling to get into one of the crafts.

"Here."

He helped Carmelito slide into one of the pods. For a moment, the ensign glanced at him. No words were spoken. With the gaze of the dead coming from the young man's eyes, none needed to be.

 _I'm sorry._

Reynolds and his cronies would pay. The mission would be completed, and every last gorram Reaver in this gorram star system would be wiped from the face of Creation. Such was the Operative's vow as he got into his own escape pod.

The pods launched as the _Alfred_ was consumed by fire – it was an outward blast, no doubt from its reactor. In an instant, 311 men and women were vaporized. Consigned to the solar winds, and memories of Man. He watched through his pod's HUD as the blast spread outwards.

 _I've been here before._

He remembered falling. Towards another hostile world, in the company of fellow soldiers. As if from a dream, or fleeting memory. It-

 _Carmelito._

Carmelito's pod had launched after his, even after the ensign had got in before him. He watched as the fire spread. As it approached the ensign's pod.

 _No._

Watched as the fire reached the pod.

 _No!_

He turned his pod's radio off. He didn't want to hear the sound of Carmelito being burnt alive.

 _I'm so sorry._

Ensign Carmelito was dead. Killed in the line of duty, as part of some mad game that Reynolds had played right until the end. Just like the madman he was. Silently, the Operative adjusted the pod's trajectory to Mr Universe's base.

 _Soon, Captain Reynolds, we will, at last, end this monstrosity._

Soon, it would all end.

Like the fire up above, fire would burn the sin all away.

* * *

The Operative had made it to the surface of Siren, within fifty metres of Mr Universe's base. In the descent he'd seen no sign of _Serenity_ , but had seen a Reaver pursuit ship setting down at the landing strip. He'd activated his pod's beacon and headed for the base itself, bypassing its main entrance and instead using its ventilation system. And now, after ten minutes of crawling, he burst out of a duct, landing at Mr Universe's sanctum.

 _Back here again._

He glanced around – the marines had done their job well. All of the hacker's monitors were blackened out – smashed, in some cases. No more listening in, no more sending signals out. Whatever Reynolds and his crew hoped to accomplish, it was doomed to failure.

 _Now all I have to do is find them. And hope that the Reavers don't find me._

He spared a second glance at Mr Universe's body. He'd crawled over to his love-bot, leaving a trail of blood behind him, and collapsed in her lap. Like a child, really. Certainly he'd been naive as one.

The Operative moved forward. Time to find Reynolds and-

"Mal."

He spun around. The love-bot was looking up at him.

"Guy killed me Mal," she said, her voice a monotone. "He killed me with a sword. How weird is that?"

It took the Operative less than a moment to realize that he was the "guy" that the love-bot was referring to. It took only slightly longer to realize that Mr Universe had somehow stayed alive long enough to leave a recorded message for his criminal friends.

"I got…a short span here," the love-bot continued. "They destroyed my equipment, but I have a backup unit. Bottom of the complex, right over the generator. Hard to get too. I know they missed it. They can't stop the signal Mal. They can never stop the signal. Okay, this is painful. On many levels. I'm not…"

The love-bot powered down, her eyes going dark. Leaving the Operative in the darkness of the room. And the darkness of his own thoughts.

 _Idiots,_ he reflected. _Ni men dou shi sha gua!_

Reynolds was here. He knew it. And if Reynolds had listened to this worm's epitaph, then…

 _They can't stop the signal Mal._

The Operative got moving.

 _Just watch me._

* * *

The access way to the generator was a long staircase that took him to a catwalk. On a central platform was a ramshackle mess of wires and terminals. He could hear the humming of a machine, and guessed that the generator was below.

But none of that mattered. Because Malcolm Reynolds was standing with his back turned to him, standing on the railing that separated the walkway from the platform, with the lack of any connecting walkway. Malcolm Reynolds was all that mattered. And Malcolm Reynolds would never use that device. Malcolm Reynolds, his foe, his target, had to die.

So he fired his laser pistol, hitting Reynolds in the back. Reynolds grunted and fell back onto the walkway. It wasn't a lethal shot – the power setting wasn't high enough for that. Reynolds would die, but he would give him the courtesy of doing it to his face.

The Operative holstered his pistol as he watched Reynolds struggle to his feet before turning around.

"Shot me in the back," Reynolds said. He forced a smile. "I haven't made you angry have I?"

"There's a lot of innocent people in the air being killed right now."

The smile faded. "You have no idea how true that is."

The Operative watched Reynolds. Gone was the scoundrel that he had seen on Burnet. Gone was the broken man of Haven, or the captain that had saved River on Beaumonde. All that stood before him now was Captain Malcolm Reynolds, 57th Brigade, Independent Army. Malcolm Reynolds his enemy. Malcolm Reynolds the soldier.

"I know the secret," Reynolds whispered. "The truth that burned up River Tam's brain. The rest of the 'Verse is going to know it too. Because they need to."

"Do you really believe that?" the Operative asked sadly.

"I do."

"You willing to die for that belief?"

Even now, he hoped.

"I am."

The Operative nodded. Reynolds had chosen his path. And he would meet the path's end. In the blink of an eye, he reached for his laser pistol.

Only Reynolds beat him to it as he drew out his revolver. The first shot hit the pistol, blasting it out of the Operative's hand. The next two shots hit his body armour, knocking him backwards. The Operative dived for cover behind some maintenance equipment.

"Of course," he heard Reynolds mutter, "that ain't exactly Plan A."

The Operative glanced out from behind cover – he watched Reynolds jump to one of the rungs that hung above. He went from one rung to the next, like monkey-bars.

 _Idiot._

The Operative ran over to his pistol – it was trashed. Reynold's bullet had torn right through it. And Reynolds himself was making decent headway to the transmission point.

The Operative jumped as well, grabbing a chain and swinging across. His feet hit Reynolds, sending him flying down towards the spinning blades of the generator below. Yet he caught himself between some chains, and began to climb up to the central platform. The Operative meanwhile carried himself over on the rungs. He dropped down once he was close enough, rolling across the platform to disperse the impact of his fall. As he turned around, he saw Reynolds climb up onto the platform and reach for his pistol.

 _No._

The Operative dived into Reynolds, sending them both sprawling, and causing Reynolds to drop the gun into the abyss below. The Operative got to his feet and dragged Reynolds with him. And with a flurry of punches and kicks, sent him staggering back against a railing.

This was how it would go. Reynolds had a faster draw than him, he'd give him that much. But he was slower, weaker, and no more skilled than he'd been on Burnet. He'd already won. And Reynolds was either too stubborn or too stupid to realize it, as he tried to hold his own against the Operative's attacks. Sometimes, he even got a blow of his own in. But it accounted for nothing. Especially as the Operative sent Reynolds sprawling down onto the platform. Slowly, he unsheathed his sword. And watched as Reynolds rose to his feet, holding a screwdriver as if it were a dagger. The Operative pointed his sword towards Reynolds, before swinging it twice. Reynolds dodged each blow and went on the attack. But he was easily stopped, as the Operative kneed him in the chest, and stabbed him in the stomach.

Reynolds struggled for breath. But he still stood there. Still with the screwdriver in his hand. Defiant to the last, as the two were locked in death's embrace.

"Do you know what your sin is, Mal?" the Operative whispered.

Reynolds gave the smile of the damned. "Ah hell," he said. "I'm a fan of all seven."

And then he head-butted the Operative. The Operative did a spinning kick in response, but yelled in pain as the screwdriver pierced the sole of his boot. Reynolds pulled the screwdriver in towards him and socked the Operative on the jaw, knocking him to the ground.

"But right now, I'm gonna have to go with wrath."

 _Wrath? You, who've brought Hell to my fleet, speak of wrath here?_

The Operative watched as Reynolds drew the sword out of his stomach. He was trembling, and without medical attention, wouldn't last long.

 _Though what of the wrath I myself dispensed?_

But Reynolds the soldier had declared himself willing to die for his crusade. And now, actions were speaking louder than words.

The sword came down. And, casting doubt to the ether, the Operative rolled to the side, kicking Reynolds, forcing him to stumble. He got up and punched Reynolds in his stomach wound, grinning as he watched, and heard, his foe scream.

It was inappropriate to derive this kind of pleasure, he knew that. He was an Operative of the parliament. The right hand of the Alliance, the defender of civilization. But right now, he was taking great pleasure from beating the shit out of Malcolm Reynolds. In hindsight, Serra had been correct – Reynolds had succeeded in overturning a decade of the finest training the Alliance could provide, and had actually succeeded in making him angry. Angry for his defiance, angry for the lives he had had to take, angry for the lives being lost in orbit right now. And that Reynolds had achieved all this made him angrier still. So it was with more than precision, more than the knowledge of the damage it would cause, that led him to kick Reynolds in the face.

It was anger.

After a moment, however, he got himself under control. He was better than this, made of worthier stuff than a common thug like Reynolds.

 _No, not a thug. Perhaps I was wrong about him being a plucky hero. Either way, though, this must end._

He watched Reynolds struggle to his feet – he had to know this was ending. Why else would he try to activate the transmission device?

"I'm sorry," the Operative said. And he meant it. Reynolds would have made such a talented Operative, if only he could have directed his anger at a target other than the Alliance.

But the sorrow didn't stop him from plunging his fingers into a nerve cluster in the captain's back, leaving him paralysed. Just like he'd done with Mathias. Reynolds gasped. And remained still.

The Operative began walking towards his sword. "You should know there's no shame in this," he said. "You've done remarkable things." He picked up the sword and began wiping the blood away. "But you're fighting a war that you've already lost."

He thrust his sword…

And Reynolds, impossibly, ducked out of the way.

The Operative stood there in mute shock at this patent impossibility. And that gave Reynolds all the opportunity he needed to grab the Operative's sword arm, yank it and him forward, and elbow him in the throat.

Gasping, choking, wheezing, the Operative dropped his sword and stumbled back, unable to speak. Reynolds walked towards him.

"Yeah, well, I'm known for that." Then, the captain grabbed the Operative into a wrestling hold and cracked his arms.

It was a relatively simple manoeuvre, and it all but won the fight for one simple reason: The Operative hadn't felt pain of this kind in _years_. Not since the earliest days of his training. He had forgotten how debilitating pain could be. He was _so_ good, so skilled, so successful, that no opponent since those days had ever even seriously challenged, much less hurt him.

Reynolds dropped him to the floor, the impact against the cold surface adding to the pain coursing through the Operative's arms. Then the captain picked up the sword. "Piece'a shrapnel tore up that nerve cluster my first tour. Had it moved."

The Operative cursed himself for once again failing to put disparate pieces of information into a coherent whole. At the training house, he hadn't counted on Serra being a threat. And now, he'd done it again. He'd read Reynold's medical records from the war, had seen the military surgeon's report on the operation that moved the cluster, but never thought to apply it to a hand-to-hand strategy. But then, he'd never counted on _requiring_ a hand-to-hand strategy with Reynolds either.

"Sorry 'bout the throat." Reynold's apology sounded considerably less sincere than the Operative's had been. He walked over. "Expect you'd want to say your famous last words now. Just one trouble."

The Operative couldn't respond, as he was too busy gasping for breath. And his arms were useless as Reynolds reached over the railing, pulled the back of the Operative's jacket through, and sliced the sword through the fabric – not through his heart, as he'd expected. Now he was pinned to the railing, unable to move, especially with his arms as damaged as they were.

Reynolds knelt down and met the Operative's eyes. The eyes of the soldier were back there. The eyes of a man who had lost everything, and would give up anything, to do what he thought he had to.

"I ain't gonna kill you," Reynolds said. He turned around and began walking towards the broadwave console, drawing out a cylinder from his pocket. "Hell, I'm gonna grant you your greatest wish." He put it in the player, and hit the **SEND ALL** button. I'm gonna show you a world without sin."

The screen at the top of the broadwave lit up, followed by every screen in the room. It showed a woman, dressed in the uniform of an Alliance official. Reynolds activated a bridge that extended from the control node to the room's exit, and walked off.

And a recording began to play.

* * *

" _These are just a few of the images we've recorded. And you can see…it isn't what we thought."_

The Operative watched on, staring at the images the woman was referring to. They cycled in groups of four, all showing the same thing – the bodies of the dead, in various states of decomposition.

" _There's been no war here, no terraforming event. The environment is stable."_

Where was 'here', though? He squinted closer, trying to get a sense of place. The timestamps were all in the month of March, 2506, across the span of the 15th to 16th. But there was no hint of the location.

" _It's the Pax,"_ the woman said, speaking on the verge of tears. _"The G-23 paxilon hydrochlorenate that we added to the air processors. It was supposed to calm the population, weed out aggression."_ The woman started to cry. _"Well it works. The people here stopped fighting. And then they stopped everything else."_

There was a long pause as the woman stood in silence, letting her tears flow in place of her words. And the Operative leant forward even further, as the images continued to cycle. Pax. "Peace," in Latin. But he'd never heardof any chemical substance that bore its name, or the notion of seeding a planet's atmosphere with anything that wasn't meant to simulate Earth-like environments. And where was this world at all?

" _They stopped going to work,"_ she continued. _"They stopped breeding…talking…eating…there's thirty million people here and they all just let themselves die. They didn't even kill themselves. They just…most starved. When they stopped working the power grids, there were overloads, fires…people burned to death just sitting in their chairs. Just sitting"_ She took a breath. _"Thirty million."_

Thirty million. Even as the tears poured down the woman's face, even as what left of his tarnished soul reached out for a fellow human being, it was the number that gave the Operative the greatest shot. Humans weren't good with numbers. One death was a tragedy, a million was a statistic, as the saying went. There was a point when the human mind stopped comprehending such figures on the personal level. But he was an Operative. He was trained to run the numbers – he'd run them over the past month, as he'd judged that the deaths of dozens of innocents were all worth ending the threat that River Tam presented, whatever that threat was. But thirty million?

He couldn't imagine it. Couldn't conceive how the Alliance could have been involved in the deaths of thirty million innocents.

There was a roar, and the sound of banging on a hatch. It was from the recording. The woman glanced sideways before returning to the recording device. She wore a mask, and its name was Death.

" _I have to be quick,"_ she said, the mask cracking as her tears dissolved it. _"There was no-one working the receptors when we landed, so we hit pretty hard. We can't leave. We can't use any of the local transports because-"_ The bangs increased in intensity. _"There are people…they're not people. About a tenth of a percent of the population had the opposite reaction to the Pax. Their aggressor response increased beyond madness. They have become…"_ She closed her eyes for a moment. _"Well they've killed most of us. And not just killed. They've done things."_

Reavers, the Operative reflected. Hearing her words, hearing the snarls nearby – snarls and roars that echoed from the _Vagabond_. It…no. It couldn't be. It-

" _I won't live to report this,"_ the woman sobbed, as the roars of monsters sung in discord with the hammering on her ship's hatch. _"But people have to know. We meant it for the best. To make people safer."_ She looked to the side, and a different sound was heard. The sound of a hatch being bent open.

" _God!"_ she screamed, and pulled out a pistol, firing once in the direction of the noise. Then she put it to her forehead, hoping for the mercy of a swift death.

But neither mercy nor God was found, as something tackled her to the floor of her ship. And the Operative felt a tear of his own trickle down, as he watched the sight. Biting her. Tearing into her clothes and fresh, roaring and spitting as she screamed. As more creatures poured in. As the roars grew louder. And the screams softer. As he saw what the creatures did. As he watched it all – to bear witness to the dead.

He knew that tens of billions of people had borne witness to it as well. And saw the recording cut out, and its epitaph displayed.

 **Recording taken on March 16th, 2506**

 **IAV** _ **Antonio**_

 **Burnham system, Miranda**

Miranda. The word of his dreams. A blackrock, deep in Reaver space. A terraforming accident. Lies, all of it. All to make people better. All to make a world without sin.

 _It was a lie._

It was that fact that got to him the most. Everything he had fought for. Better worlds. All the lives he had taken, to make that happen. All of that, based on this. No wonder the Alliance had been so desperate to prevent the truth from being known.

 _Everything I fought for…believed…a lie._

"Sir?"

His pocket comm. was receiving a feed. In the midst of all this, he had completely forgotten about it.

"Targets have been acquired. Do we engage?"

Reynolds was still alive. The Operative smiled, despite himself.

"Do we have a kill order?"

He could imagine them pointing their guns at Reynolds right now. Their fingers on the triggers. All too eager to bring death to the man who had brought so much death to them. Had brought the monsters home.

"Do we have a kill order?!"

Fighting the pain, he brought a hand down to the radio and activated it. Maybe, just maybe…

"Do we-"

"Stand down," he said. "It's finished. We're finished."

And he closed his eyes. Thinking of the waste of years, of the waste of lives. Of truth and falsehood, of virtue and sin. All leading to this one, final moment. Where the Alliance's pride had invoked karma's wrath. How he had been their willing instrument for oh so long. How his faith in falsehood had been rewarded.

 _I'm finished._

And how he too had finally paid the price for his sins.

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So, the epilogue notwithstanding, that's the last chapter done._

 _Similar to ch. 6, this was a case of me relying on the movie and novelization, which in the case of the latter, did result in some verbatim sections when the Operative's POV was featured. That aside, not too much to say, but a few things I want to comment on._

 _In the novelization, the Operative was at Haven, and incapacitated Book with his "nerve pinch" technique. However, in a case of me truly going against canon, I decided to claim that in this story, it never happened. Partly because of the logistics - Mal and co. would leave Inara's planet/moon (I decided that it was Burnet based on the astro-geography of the 'Verse), and presumably head straight to Haven. It can be assumed that the Operative's ship is faster under the premise that a larger ship will result in greater speed in a zero-g environment. But even then, after leaving Burnet after Mal, he'd have to trace down Mal's contacts, attack Haven, leave Haven, and be so far away that he can't track Mal in less time than it takes_ Serenity _to reach Haven after embarking on what can be assumed to be the shortest route. Yeah...that's stretching it._

 _Also made up Siren being Mr. Universe's moon, as the background for the moon in the novelization doesn't match any world in_ The Verse in Numbers _, and given how quickly_ Serenity _gets from Miranda to the moon, I have to assume that it's situated in Blue Sun. As such, gave Fury an extra moon, providing the rationale as to why it wouldn't come up much in star charts and whatnot given that it was classified as a blackrock. Miranda itself provides a precedent for this._


	9. Epilogue

_I did not die, and yet I lost life's breath_

 **Firefly: Seven Deadly Sins**

 **Epilogue**

A week later _Serenity_ was ready to leave.

In the space of that week, he'd ordered his men to stand down and return to greener pastures that were now hosting thousands, if not millions of protesters who were unhappy that their government had helped facilitate genocide, and spawned monsters who were bent on continuing the slaughter. Only a few ships remained, assigned to clean up the debris field surrounding Siren, and to hunt down Reaver stragglers within Blue Sun. He'd told the captains not to worry about him, and the captains were just fine with that order. He'd led them to the slaughter. He was an Operative of a government who'd created the monsters so many sailors and marines had fallen to. When he'd given the order that _Serenity_ and its crew be left well enough alone, and that supplies be provided for the repairs, few eyebrows were raised – Reynolds may have led the monsters to their door, yet the true demon had been in their midst all along.

And so he stood in the rain at the landing strip outside Mr. Universe's sanctum. Siren had fallen silent, and no more ships would come to its shores. Just stood there, letting it wash over him. His body unfeeling of the chill. His spirit seeking absolution, yet knowing there was none. God, if he existed, had ordered rain fall on a now long dead world. Out here, on the fringe, there were no gods or devils left. Only men. Like himself. And the one he watched pick up some repair tools and head for the cargo bay of his ship. Men like Malcolm Reynolds. And as he continued to stand, he wondered if the captain had even noticed him.

"It's not over you know," he said.

He watched Reynolds pause and reach for his pistol. But he didn't draw it. Instead her turned around – slowly, the Operative noticed. Stomach wounds didn't completely heal in a week, even after the likes of Simon Tam looked at them.

"If you're here to tell me this ain't finished," Reynolds said, "then we will be real quick."

The Operative joined Reynolds by the ramp, stepping out of the rain. "Do you know what an uproar you've caused?" he asked. "Protests. Riots. Cries for a recall of the entire parliament."

"I've seen the broadwaves."

"You must be pleased."

If he was, Reynolds didn't show it. He just stood there, looking at him. And for the first time, the Operative felt he was seeing the real Malcolm Reynolds. Not Malcolm Reynolds the vagabond. Not Malcolm Reynolds the soldier. But Malcolm Reynolds. The man who wanted to go his way. Who could talk to him without the need for a façade – and let his contempt flow naturally.

"'Verse wakes up for a spell," Reynolds murmured. "Won't be long 'fore she rolls right over and falls back asleep. T'ain't my worry."

"I can't guarantee they won't come after you," the Operative said. "The parliament. Your broadwave about Miranda has weakened their regime, but they are not gone, and they are not forgiving."

Reynolds offered no sympathy. "That don't bode especially well for you – giving the order to let us go, patching up our hurt."

"I told them the Tams were no longer a threat – damage done. They might listen." He looked to the side, to the barren plains of Siren, the moon offering no songs of comfort. "But I think they know I'm no longer their man."

"They take you down, I don't expect to grieve overmuch. Like to kill you myself, I see you again."

"You won't." The Operative smiled sadly. "There is nothing left to see."

Reynolds said nothing, but instead turned around and began to walk back into his ship. Glancing at its hull, the Operative caught sight of its name – _Serenity_. Written in both English and Mandarin, located in a golden/brown circle.

"Serenity," the Operative murmured. He returned his gaze to Reynolds, who looked down at him from the top of the ramp. "You lost everything in that battle. Everything you had, everything you were…" He paused, as the weight of worlds, and lies, and sin poured down upon him with the rain. As tales of a battle hung over him, one that he would never remember, yet be haunted by all the same. "How did you go on?"

Reynolds turned around and headed back to his ship. But before the ramp closed, the Operative heard him say, "you still standing there when the engine starts, you'll never figure it out."

The Operative smiled – he didn't doubt it. Malcolm Reynolds was nothing if not honest.

And so he stepped backwards. Back into the rain. Back far enough to watch the _Firefly_ -class transport lift into the air, its thrusters evaporating the water on the landing strip below. Watched it sail into the dark of the storm, illuminating the air around it. Just like the creature of its namesake. Watched it soar higher and higher.

Then it was gone, disappeared amongst the clouds.

And then he was alone.

* * *

The storm was getting worse.

Without meaning or purpose, the Operative walked across the surface of Siren. All he had was his uniform and sword, both feeling foreign. His body carried him forward as his mind dwelt elsewhere. In the depths of distant memory, blemished by the hand of his masters and his own failings. But he knew the story. In rashness, he had joined the Alliance, who in their greed, had turned to the Outer Planets. He had fought against sloth, and envied those who lived the lives he could not. Yet in gluttony, his masters had grown fat, and lusted for more. In their pride, they had considered themselves invincible. And as their errant children had come home, brought their wrath against their creators, they had, at last, fallen from Paradise.

And he too, he thought, as he walked across the plains of Purgatory. Lighting flashed, and he looked up at the sky – the heavens were laughing at him. There was no fire here, in the rain. No warmth. He shivered, as he walked onwards. Warmth was something that he very much wanted right now. Even as he kept walking away from the complex. Towards the trio of lights that awaited him in the distance. The only light on this earth, as he walked in darkness.

It didn't take him long to reach them. It took even less to see what they were – grave markers, each with a holo-snap depicting the deceased. He came to a halt, and looked into the eyes of the dead.

 _Have I walked among such graves before?_

The first was carved with the name "Mister Universe." He was wrapping his arms around his love-bot in a warm embrace, the bot being its usual silent self. False love, perhaps. Yet real, he supposed, for the man whose life he had taken. Mister Universe, a.k.a. Forest Whedon, a.k.a. whatever the heck his name was, had died for something. For what he believed in. He had been robbed of such a thing. A week ago, he would have been willing to die for a world without sin. Now…He looked around the wasteland. Now there was nothing.

The second grave belonged to a person he didn't recognise – it showed a wise-looking man with a silver goatee and wild hair tied into neat cornrows. He was smiling, and the grave claimed his name was Derrial Book. Who he was, the Operative didn't know. Only that he was dear enough to the crew of _Serenity_ to be immortalized. To perhaps be remembered only by them. Who would remember him, he wondered? His own name sounded foreign on his tongue. Who could shed tears for the monster who served monsters even greater than himself?

 _Or am I greater? I wielded the sword with intent – they only let it fall through hubris._

The third grave offered no answer. Like Book, he was smiling, yet he was much younger. Much happier. His name was Hoban Washburne, and the Operative recognised the name – the husband of Zoë Alleyne. The pilot of _Serenity_. A man killed by the Reavers not long after landing, from what little he'd heard from Reynolds on the subject matter. And given the looks of venom Reynolds and his…family, had given him…the Operative had fallen silent.

Family. They were mourning family here – he had no doubt that Book was as close to the ones he knew here to his former foes. Foes who would no doubt like to see him dead and buried as well, with no name to mark it. And what name could be given, he asked himself? He could think of one, but the graves offered no answer. Nor did the light coming from above. That belonged to an Alliance short range enforcement vessel, or ASREV. He smiled – his masters had acted quickly. There was likely a mothership in orbit. But they had at least given him the courtesy of letting him know that he was worth the time to be terminated.

Who would it be, he wondered? Kalista? Denon? How many names did Death carry? The vessel landed, and he watched its hatch open. He knew that with his passing, Death would have at least one less name to bear. Through the rain, he squinted, to catch a glimpse of his assassin. Through the rain, she walked towards him, bearing the same uniform as his own, and the same sword slung along her back.

"Hello Dante," she said.

He stood there, until he caught sight of her. And when he did, his eyes widened – she was shorter than he was. Her skin was dark, her eyes the colour of chocolate, her hair done up in braids, still blowing in the wind. She was…there was no word for it, beautiful. Beautiful, and yet…sad. Like something out of a dream, forlorn that he had forgotten.

"Do you remember me?"

But it was irrelevant. The Alliance had sent an Operative to terminate him. That was all that mattered.

"I can't recall."

Or apprehend him. But he wouldn't let that happen. He was ready to die. Ready to accept judgement in this world, and possibly the next. But he wouldn't let his deceivers laugh before his end.

"No," she murmured. "Of course you don't."

She stood there, as did he. She was…the dream analogy came to his mind. Something about her…he couldn't place it. Was this a trick, he wondered? Something to put him off guard?

"I was wondering when you'd turn up," he murmured.

She smiled sadly. "You know your masters well."

"And how well do they know me?"

"Well enough to see through your deception – you've let the Tams go. You may have even had a hand in the Miranda broadwave. At best, you're a liability. At worst, you're a traitor."

"Says the servant of those who offered the honey pot."

"You volunteered for this life."

"Did I?"

"Yes," she said. "I know that for a fact."

He believed her. Like Reynolds, there was an…honesty, about her. Strange that she had chosen this life. Or was her honesty a deception, and that she walked in falsehood as readily as her masters?

"I'm ready," the Operative said. "You may kill me, and I shall not stop you. Seek to chain me, and I will not go quietly."

She nodded, and drew out her sword. "I have orders to terminate you," she said. "No trial, no hearing. Your… _our_ , masters, are too caught up in other matters to worry about such trivialities."

The Operative believed it. These were the same men who had decided that Dr Mathias had to die.

"And perhaps they're in the right of it," she said. She pointed the sword at him, like an avenging angel. "You've killed. You've murdered. Not just your enemies, but friends as well. You've failed in your mission. All of this, can perhaps be laid at your feet."

The Operative didn't contest the claim.

"And then there was Londinium. In the dream."

That claim, he couldn't give meaning to.

"But I'm not going to kill you."

The sword was lowered, hanging limply at her side, and she gestured to the ASREV. "Your chariot awaits."

Silence lingered, broken only by the storm and whispers of forgotten memory.

"Why?" the Operative whispered eventually?

"Because…" She bit her lip. "Because violent action breeds violent men. Because I think the 'Verse has seen enough violence to last a lifetime." She glanced at the graves, the smiles of the dead looking back at her. "Because I think that after everything you've done, you deserve a second chance."

"Why?" he repeated.

"Because you showed mercy. Because you haven't tried to kill me yet. Because I know that you're letting regret consume you, to the extent that you're ready to die." She sheathed her sword. "I can't give you vindication, or forgiveness. But I can give you freedom. A chance so that maybe, you can find your own forgiveness in time." She smiled sadly, and he was reminded of another place, in another time – deep amongst the stars. "You let Reynolds go, after all."

She began walking into the storm, towards the complex. "I'll make up a story. They may even believe it. After all, we know how we have served the whims of liars. Perhaps they can no longer distinguish between truth and fiction."

The Operative watched her. Walking away from him. Like a dream returned, only to fade. And somewhere, deep down, something made him call out to her. To stop the dream from departing.

"They sent you to kill me," he blurted out.

She looked back at him. "I was the closest Operative in range."

"And what's your name?"

Her smile returned. "I go by many names," she whispered. She glanced at her sword, before meeting his gaze. "You once knew me as Miranda."

"Once knew you?"

"Yes." She sighed. "Miranda is now a name that no-one will ever forget." The smile faded. "You…I…were not so lucky." She signed. "Goodbye, Dante."

Miranda. He watched her depart, disappearing into the gloom. Miranda - the word on everyone's mind. The word that was the buzzword of the 'Verse. A word, from his memory, made ever-present in the here and now. For a moment, he reached out for her. Heart and mind warred, spurring him to different actions. _Go on,_ said the heart. _Go on._

Yet his mind bid him stay. Lies, and falsehoods. That was all she could offer. Even this act of mercy was rooted in deception. He had no more need of such a life. No need of one who bore the name Miranda. No matter how much his heart protested.

And so he entered the ship. Walked up to its cockpit. Walked as an Operative, even as he put his sword aside.

 _What's your name?_

Names. Ridiculous. And yet…he looked out over the graves. And wondered if he too, had looked upon a grave of another kind. Of a woman called Beatrice, on a planet called Londinium. If a boy had loved her, before joining the army of the Devil. Wondered if there was anything of that boy still left in him, yet fated to never be remembered.

 _Dante,_ he thought. _My name is Dante._

He activated the ship's engines.

 _Dante Lodovico, son of Beatrice and Virgil Lodovico, born on Londinium. Believed KIA in Battle of Serenity Valley, 2511._

The engines let out a roar.

 _Truly died on Siren, 2518. Yet perhaps reborn._

He knew no redemption or recompense would be offered. But for courage or cowardice, he would not end his life. Not yet. For now, he would fly. Into the Black. Looking up through the cockpit, for the first time in an age, he smiled.

The storm was clearing.

 **The End**

* * *

 _A/N_

 _So, that's that. Over a year of writing, months of posting, and it's over. Not under the delusion that many people care given how feedback dried up quickly, but I may as well get the last author's note out of the way._

 _So, this chapter. Potentially deviating from canon, as the novelization claimed that the graves were made on Haven, and_ Serenity _repaired in the Evesdown Docks. To which I go, "huh?" Not only is that extremely inefficient (i.e. how would the ship even get airborne with only one engine), but that's taking it back well into Alliance-controlled territory. Yes, it does have the thematic angle that the movie/novelization ends close to where the series began, but, yeah. Figured repairing it on the moon made far more sense._

 _It wasn't my original plan to have an epilogue, and the graves idea helped spur the conception of the prologue, going for the idea of parallels and whatnot. I was pretty certain that I'd end the story with Mal and the Operative's conversation, though whether it would go on beyond that was vague. Even then, I had two alternate ideas for how the story would end. The first was that the Operative would face Kalista, defeat her, and escape. I shot this down, because it just didn't gel with_ Leaves on the Wind _, given that Kalista is just so good that the Operative surrenders at the mere sight of her, even after killing Denon. The second was that Miranda would come, that he'd either best her, or that she'd come with soldiers, but kill them and let him take her ship. Shot this down as well, because it didn't feel right to end a story on the final note of murder. I mean, yeah, there's been a bunch of it in the story up until now, but it's rare that a story ends on an action scene. As such, went with this version._

 _So, anyway, story's over. At this point in time, I'm currently working on a multi-chaptered story titled_ Matchmakers _for_ Heroes of the Storm _, while the only other multi-chaptered_ Firefly _story I have on my "to write" list is_ All the World's a Stage _, showing Zoe dealing with the effects of Wash's death. I may end up canceling that, given that post-movie comics probably cover that adequately (still need to get_ Float-Out _at some point), but time will tell. But honestly, motivation is pretty low right now. The last multi-chaptered story I did that could be considered a success was_ The New Black Gold _, and that was back in 2013. But anyway, thanks to those who reviewed. And. to end this author's note on a more positive tone, "keep flying."_


End file.
